Run Together
by BabyChickens
Summary: Mathew is stuck in his brother's basement. It will take a German and murder most-foul to get him out. AU, mature themes.
1. Chapter One

"No, Al, no!" Mathew cried, straining against his bonds. He was locked to his bed, which was bolted to the concrete floor. He writhed against the handcuffs, trying to move away from his brother. Tears were forming in his eyes, heart in his ears, his stomach in his throat. "Please, Al, please!" he sobbed. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, fear driving him wild and frantic.

Mathew's older twin sat on the wooden chair beside the bed, taking long and calm drags of his cigarette, breathing slowly, the stream of smoke billowing out and fading. Alfred looked exactly the same as Mathew, or rather, Mathew looked like Alfred. Mathew always had been the twin who had the longer hair, usually wavy, but he had been assimilated. He now looked almost exactly like Alfred. Except for his body frame and his eye colour,which was a violet blue.

"Don't you wish these calmed me down like they used to?" Alfred finally asked. It was like his voice petrified Mathew and the younger went still, hyperventilating and sobbing. Alfred reached out to grab Mathew by the forearm.

Mathew tensed, breathing deeply, until Alfred pressed the end of his cigarette to his arm. Al ground it deep into his skin, searing the flesh, and singeing his arm hair. Alfred took off the cigarette, and brought it to his lips again, taking another drag of the inhalant. The end of the stick went red hot with each inhale, and Alfred pressed the end into the same spot again. Mathew screamed the entire time, the smell making him sick to his stomach. His stomach heaved, and bile rose to his lips, but he didn't let it spill out, for fear that Alfred would punish him more.

Finally, Alfred stopped. He rose up, tossing the key to the cuffs onto the bed beside Mathew, just barely out of his reach. He silently moved to the door, opening up to the stairs that led to the main floor of the house.

Before he left he turned around and chucked the cigarette at Mathew. "Fag!" he spat. Then he turned around and slammed the door shut behind him.

Mathew, able to wriggle the matress just enough for the key to his release to come tumbling down into his palm, uncuffed himself and rushed to the little cramped spare bathroom to force the bile out of his throat and stomach. Mathew coughed as his innards churned and seized and his body shuddered, covered with sweat. He looked around the room that he would be liberated from shortly. It was cold and barren. The walls where plain and the bed was old and worn. There was a ratty old rug in the middle of the room that, despite how often Mathew had tried to clean it, looked, and smelled, like piss.

Mathew inspected his arms, the newest burn gleaming with blood and puss leaking out of the bright red circle. It had joined the other red circles on his arms, some more faded than others. He was starting to get used to the burnings, although that didn't make them any less painful. He pulled up his shirt and inspected the other marks. A bruise here and there from Alfred's beatings, a couple scars, and a scar where his neck met his shoulder, where Alfred had slipped with the knife when he held it to his neck for the first time.

"Yes... It's too bad he missed." Mathew chuckled darkly as he absent-mindedly stroked the leathery skin.

Mathew couldn't help but think of a better time. Or at least, he couldn't help but think of a time when the better ended. He and Alfred used to be best friends at some point. As children, they were part of the perfect family. Loving parents, a good house, lots of sunshine and picnics. Mathew thought he remembered his parents as good looking, well adjusted people. He thought he remembered his mother being soft, beautiful, and gentle. His father was always there, always proud and prepared for any fatherly duties. Truth be told, Mathew didn't know what they were like anymore, he only knew for sure what came after, and he couldn't even remember their faces.

It all began, the basement, the torture, the horrid slew of negative emotions, on a beautiful summer day. Mathew remembered how they were going on vacation. It was the start of another adventure by the Williams family! The radio was singing softly as Mathew and Alfred played eye-spy in the back seat of their station wagon. Mathew couldn't remember where they were going, or if they were really going anywhere. It didn't matter anymore, anyways. It was just when they had all starting singing along to the song on the radio when it happened.

All Mathew knew was wiped out in a secon, as a drunk driver, yes, in the middle of the day, rammed into them. Mathew remembered that moment clearly, almost in slow motion. The car smashed into the passenger side of the car, closest to his mother who was turned around to check on them. The force of the impact snapped her neck, killing her instantly. Alfred hit his head on the door, knocking himself unconscious. The force of the impact rammed the car into a telephone pole, pressing it hard into his father.

Mathew remembered his father didn't die straight way. He just bled to death.

The drunk driver was the worst, though. Since he didn't wear a seatbelt, he flew through the windshield and landed on the hood of the William's family station wagon, mangled, broken, and very dead. Mathew, of course, remained unscathed, other then bruises all up his arm from crashing into the door, and scratches from the shattered glass.

_Mathew walked beside the policeman as the adult escorted him to the ambulance where Alfred lay still, an oxygen mask strapped to his face._

"_Why does Alfred have that on his face?" he asked the man._

"_He needs it for... he needs it so the paramedics can make sure he'll be okay until they get him to the hospital," the solemn policeman said to him. Mathew kept trying to look back at the body on the hood of the car. Mathew knew it was a bad thing for the man to be there, but he just couldn't look away, even if the policeman kept trying to keep him looking at his brother._

Mathew couldn't remember how the police ended up with their belongings, and he couldn't remember how it was decided that they would go to live with Pastor Jones.

Alfred, wounded and lost, completely opened up to Pastor Jones, allowing himself to be adopted and taught the ways of God and the bible. Mathewremained Mathew Williams. He rejected the Pastors teachings. From that, Mathew himself was rejected in the pieced together family. He became invisible. He tried to remain cheerful, but it was hard when he kept being flat-out ignored. It became even harder when the Pastor started making night-trips into his room.

_Mathew lay still, holding his breath, hoping that if he stayed still enough, Pastor Jones would leave him. He cursed__himself when his lungs practicly burst, shooting the air out and bringing in another breath to be held. He trembled under the pastor's touch, sliding up his leg, and in to his no-no zone. Mathew's heart beat in his ears, and he prayed. He prayed to the pastor's god, praying for him to make the man stop. He clutched his sheets, shocks going up his body. And then the pastor left. He left Mathew to cry in peace._

Brought back to the present, Mathew sprayed himself with areosol deodorant and threw on his long-sleeved red black shirt, and his red hoodie as well. He checked the time. He only had 3 hours until Alfred would finish church and his shift at the salvation army. He had enough time to run down to the video store. He would have to rent an old movie, one that could last him a week.

Faced with the prospect of getting out of his own personal dungeon and actually being entertained caused Mathew to gain a bit of a spring in his step. He trotted out of his house and towards the little strip mall close by, more cheerful than he had been lately, even though the burn still stung.


	2. Chapter Two

**Hello, everyone! It's Seb here with a bit of an explanation about the chapters if you haven't already been to the Babychicken profile (Which clears it up a little more than here). _Run Together _is a joint story between DD and I. Meaning, we alternate writing chapters. DD writes odd numbers (1, 3, 5, 7, etc), and I write the even ones (2, 4, 6, 8, etc). So if you're wondering why the writing styles change suddenly, that's why, haha.**

**A big THANK YOU shout out from DD and I for all the favourites, alerts and reviews! We were ecstatic to see how many we got in only a weeks time. It's such great support! Keep it comin' guys! :D **

* * *

For Gilbert Beilschmidt, being told bad news was the norm. He learned after almost twenty-four years of constant, horrible luck, that nothing too good ever happened. Life just wasn't kind enough to grace him with a golden light. When Fate reached her hand towards him in his dreams, all that lay resting in her palm was a small sign reading '_do everyone a favour and shoot yourself now'_.

No, Gilbert did not believe in good fortune. He believed there was always something dark, something cursed and twisted lurking behind every joy or blessing. He had shitty luck, yes. He seemed to live a life full of mishaps and far too many '_in the wrong place at the wrong time_'s. Sometimes he thought it was all right to give up, and more than once held that cold gun in his hand until the metal melted like chocolate with his defiance of the world. He had climbed each hardship the Lord ever threw at him. He reached the top, stumbled and fell, completely broken inside and out, only to stand up and try again...

But even for him, _this_ was unexpected.

_"You're deporting me?"_ The word sounded heavy on his tongue. Deported. To be kicked out of a nation. To be booted from your homeland. Removed. Tossed aside. _"What the fuck for?"_

The man across the room was an older blond. His long hair fanned down his back and over his shoulders like a veil of platinum. Under thin, nearly transparent eyebrows a set of cold, ice-like eyes gazed in an eerie, almost lifeless way. _"For your protection, Beilschmidt. I'd thought you would have figured that out by now, considering the situation you put yourself in."_

The situation. Of course he knew what the man spoke about. Four nights ago in a local pub Gilbert had consumed one too many beers and flirted with the wrong woman, only to find himself locked fist to fist with the biggest, angriest Russian he'd ever met. And that was saying something. Antonio, Gilbert's long time friend from Spain, was one hell of a fighter if someone so much as glanced the wrong way toward his lovers. But this guy, this behemoth of a beast, completely destroyed whatever terror Antonio gave off.

Yet Gilbert still won the battle.

Bragging about said winning wasn't exactly his most highlighted achievement. As it happened, the mammoth of a man was the 'brother' of Gilbert's uncle's leading rival in the underground society. _Younger_ brother. Imagine the fear that spread through Gilbert's gang when they saw Big Bro' come lumbering into the hideout, a dozen and a half of his men flanking him from all sides, long scarf flickering in peaceful rage.

Needless to say, Gilbert was very, _very_ screwed.

Leaning back into the chair he was offered when he first entered the office, the albino rubbed the spot between his eyes. Deported. Banished. Exiled. All because of some stupid fight with some stupid brute. God, he hated Russians. _"Where are you sending me?"_

In response his uncle simply pushed a lithe folder across the oak desk the men were sitting at, looking to each other from either side. Their eyes met for a brief second, burning crimson against chilly blue. Gilbert read the man facing him clearly. _Take it. Don't argue. Just take it and go._

Gilbert reached out and took the container of information about his new life. His new name, his new home, his new family and job. He'd only have to read six pages and know exactly who he was in this reformed reality. _"When do I leave?"_

_"Tonight. Your flight data is there, along with your ticket."_

Gilbert stood. His stomach twisted inside him, feeling ready to burst. He was leaving Germany. When would he come back? A month? A year? Never? He might_ never_ see his friends again. Not Roderich, not Elizabeta. Not Antonio or Fritz, the kind old war veteran down the street. Could he say good-bye? Did he have time?

Did he really want to?

Did he have the gall to admit he had screwed up enough, gotten into one too many fights, to tell his friends, the ones who stood by his side through all the black luck in his life, farewell?

Standing outside in the hallway, hearing the office door close with a click, the soft, _"Goodbye,_ Gilbert," whispered by his uncle, he knew what he was going to do. The folder cracked in the tight grasp of his hand. He couldn't face them. He couldn't witness the tears that would flow into Elizabeta's eyes if he told her he was leaving, possibly forever.

There was nothing else to do except drive home and pack a single change of clothes. It was best to leave everything behind, even the most important things, to start a new life. Stories weren't re-written by editing a few words. They had to be completely wiped out, deleted, destroyed, and started on a blank sheet of paper. Otherwise there would always be a trail, something giving you away until at last you were caught.

In record time, a whole hour and fifteen, Gilbert had a small duffel bag half full slung over his shoulder and the folder tucked under his left elbow. Standing in the entrance of his apartment, the German wondered why the world seemed to hate him so. What did he do in a past life to be screwed over so badly? First his parents in the accident, then the whole being kicked out of school thing years ago, leaving him on his ass without any way to find work, and now this...

"Scheiße."

Yep, that just about summed it up.

His keys felt heavy in his hand. Gilbert had flipped through the pages of the folder once already, and the very front had a small little sticky note with the brief orders: _Leave your house keys in your house. Go directly to the airport. Leave your car in the parking lot, keys inside. Do not leave through the front entrance of the apartment building._

'Uncle's paranoid,' he thought. 'Far too paranoid. Sending me out of the country... This is insane.' Really though, was it? If Gilbert was anyone else his mother's brother would have him shot dead for causing so much trouble. This was both punishment and protection. Being forced to leave Germany, to abandon everything and everyone he cared about. This was karma's biggest blow. This was the final attack.

Or so he hoped.

Letting his fingers slacken, the albino couldn't bear to watch as his keys clattered onto the small drawer sitting by the front door. _"See you,"_ he told his home. Then he stepped out, closing the door behind him, and left through the rear of the building, not once looking back.

* * *

In America he had a brother. He had parents too, but they apparently worked a lot and lived two states away, barely taking the time to visit their children. He lived with this so called brother of his in a two bedroom house in a relatively nice neighbourhood. Of course, there were pictures to accompany this little story.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow at the sight of his new home. It was very white. Very... clean. That wouldn't last long if he was given free reign of the place. And those flowers... What kind of person took the time to make such a perfect display of floral arrangements?

Two pages over was more information on his _brother_. His name was Ludwig Schwarzkopf. Twenty-one, born October the third, 1989. When Gilbert turned the next page he suddenly found himself being stared at by startling blue eyes. He choked back a laugh at the sight of this Ludwig fellow. Slicked blond hair, stony expression, a square face with a thick neck. _Schwarzkopf_ was so very misleading. This guy was the perfect Aryan.

"_Little brother,"_ Gilbert had murmured aloud in the line up waiting to be checked in (The airports were always insanely busy, making the lines frustratingly slow. For once, he was glad it was taking so long to be seen). It sounded strange. Very strange. He'd have to practice.

Passing through the information about his new job quickly (He and Ludwig apparently owned a small video store in the local mall and they, along with an Italian boy and a small, thin, Japanese boy, alternated shifts throughout the week from seven in the morning to eleven at night), Gilbert had come to what was bugging him the moment his uncle handed the folder over.

His new name. His new past. Who he was, what he had done, what he wished to do. It was all there, laying in his hands. He had to know it like the back of his hand. He had to remember every little detail so that if the time came to recite it, he could spew the facts out without hesitation.

His name was still Gilbert to avoid too much confusion for him, but his middle and surnames had been changed. Now he was Gilbert Martin Schwarzkopf, twenty-seven years old, born April the tenth, 1983. He grew up in East Germany until his family moved into the west of the country when the Berlin Wall had fallen, wanting their newest son, Ludwig, to live in the opposite side of the newly reunified nation.

His family decided to move to America when Gilbert had graduated high school, and he immediately began to work, trying to save up to go to university to further his career in the arts (The arts? _Really_?). After Ludwig graduated though, the two moved in together and took over the video store. Gilbert couldn't find any time to attend school and simply gave up the idea to help his sibling, pushing Ludwig to go to college and let the older of them take care of the store.

At the moment, Gilbert was returning from a small, nostalgic, vacation in Germany, visiting some old friends he used to go to school with while Ludwig had a break in his schooling.

Simple story. It was believable enough, he supposed. The trickiest part wasn't memorizing his life though, it was learning about everything and everyone else around who he was supposed to know and understand. Like Ludwig. And this Italian kid, Feli-something-something. Even the little Asian runt with the big eyes, Kiku Honda. Who was to say he was as sweet as he looked? Maybe he was secretly into harming baby animals. Or worse, baby humans.

Good Lord, what the hell was his uncle thinking, sending him to the States? He'd be torn to pieces!

It was finally Gilbert's turn to be checked in. He placed his bag on the weighing scale and watched as the numbers on a small square light up, reading the mass of the object, and handed over his (fake) American citizen passport, along with the ticket of his flight. Courtesy of his uncle, of course.

"_Florida, America?"_ The woman behind the counter asked, eyes glued to the screen while she validated his ticket.

"_Yes,"_ he replied.

"Schwarzkopf, Gilbert?"

"_Yes."_ No, actually, it was Beilschmidt. Gilbert Prußler Beilschmidt, named after his father's father, and the mightiest German empire in all the world. His ancestors had been Teutonic Knights, so to honour them it was a family trait to give the sons the name of their heritage. Gilbert was rather proud of his lineage. What was more awesome than being related to true knights?

"_When is your birthday,_ Herr Schwarzkopf?"

"_10. 04. 1985."_

A few more questions later, running through his birthplace, ethnic origin, and other personal information (_"Will you be returning anytime soon to Germany?"_ A pause. Then an almost whispered, _"I don't know."_), the woman had smiled in a way that told Gilbert she was doing it far too much today, and wrapped a tag around his duffel bag, placing it on one of the conveyer belts behind her. She handed back his ticket and passport. _"Have a good flight home,_ Herr Schwarzkopf."

He had wanted to tell her it wasn't home. He had wanted to scream he was being deported. Forced from his nation to go to the fucking United States. He had wanted to turn around and run, to escape somewhere his uncle and those stupid Russians would never find him. Somewhere his friends could speak to him and still see him. Somewhere he wouldn't feel like a completely alien.

Now Gilbert sat within the plane, feeling the whirling of the engine beneath his feet. His forehead pressed against the thick glass of the window, white strands of hair cushioning the cold away from his flesh. Germany was becoming smaller and smaller with each passing moment. He saw his neighbourhood, his apartment building. There, east of his home, Roderich and Elizabeta were no doubt snuggling together on their living room sofa, watching some cliché romance tale. And over in the next town Antonio was probably in his kitchen, singing away to some stupid Spanish song while making the best churros in the world.

And here was Gilbert. Gilbert, the leading man. Gilbert, the strong one. Gilbert, the trouble maker. Leaving without a word. They'd be pissed, the lot of them. Hurt. Livid. Elizabeta would most likely dream for months about beating him to a pulp with her famous frying pan techniques. Strange enough, Gilbert couldn't help grinning. After years of working to gain these friends, he was losing them in the blink of an eye.

Figures.

* * *

Fact: American airports had more people per square foot than a mall in Berlin during Christmas.

It was insane. Everywhere he looked there was a sea of multicoloured heads and faces of all different ages. Men in suits, women with children, families clustered together-they swarmed the place like a loud, buzzing colony of bees.

Someone bumped Gilbert's shoulder, nearly making him drop his bag. The German snarled, _"Watch it, you fuckhead!"_

The one guilty was an average height man with dark curly hair and a small moustache, glanced back at him, frowning. He continued walking, ignoring anything else said to him by the angry albino, as if he didn't understand...

Oh, right._ English_. He'd forgot about that little detail. The woman at the customs station had been unable to understand a lick of what he'd been saying too, which was completely unacceptable in his mind. He pronounced English words fine. It was the grammar he didn't comprehend. Those stupid British people and spreading their idiotic tongue around the world. They corrupted everything! It was all their fault he had such a hard time communicating with these blank faced, zombie brained Americans.

But there had been a translator on stand-by with the woman who helped out. Now, standing in Arrivals, which was far too crowded for his liking, he was all by himself, turning his head left and right, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do.

'Taxi,' he thought. 'Get a taxi.' Hadn't that been the plan back on the plane? Somehow Gilbert had lost his common sense. Where did he go now? All the signs were in English, and there were people pressing against him, shoving him along to God knows where. A young brunette came squealing from behind him, startling the albino when she streaked past to tackle an older grey haired man who was waiting for her with a giant smile.

Someone else accidentally elbowed Gilbert in the back. He stopped walking, blocking off a small stream of traffic. _"Who the hell-" _

The adult woman right on his heels nearly smashed into his back, cutting off the rant that was boiling inside Gilbert's throat. She glared at the European and grumbled under her breath, dodging right to swerve around him. Gilbert leered after her._ "Learn how to walk, wench,"_ he spat. Of course the woman didn't understand him. She just kept moving like everyone else. Soon he would be standing (Almost) alone with still no idea where to go or what to do.

A hand touched his shoulder, so large it nearly covered up to his neck. _"Brother?"_

That language... Gilbert turned. Sure enough Ludwig Schwarzkopf (More like _blond_kopft) towered behind him. The man was huge, bulging with muscle that had been forgotten in the photos within the folder. His hair was plastered back on his head, and when he peered down at Gilbert from the whole two inch difference in their heights, the older of the two almost believed there was genuine concern in the other man's eyes. _"Brother, are you alright?"_

Brother. Gilbert's brain whirled into action. Of course, they had to play the whole 'family' thing. His lips twisted, curling back to show gleaming teeth. "Ludwig!" he crowed, throwing an arm around his 'younger' brother's massive shoulders. _"I wondered if you'd come and get me!"_

"_I told you on the phone I was going to."_ Ludwig's cheeks were dusted pink as he tried shrugging off Gilbert's arm. _"Where's your things?"_

"_Right here. I didn't bother bringing a lot of stuff, it would've been a pain to carry it around."_ Gilbert paused, a silence lifting between them. He cocked his head to the side, as if listening intently to something. _"What's that,_ Luddy? _You want to carry my bag for me? Awesome, thanks, __**bro.**__" _With that, Gilbert dumped his belongings into Ludwig's arms.

The blond grunted in annoyance, blue eyes narrowing the slightest bit.

Gilbert just kept grinning.

"_So, where'd you park the car?"_

Ludwig blinked. Then he smirked, and it was so horrifyingly out of place Gilbert felt the blood leave his face completely._ "The __**car.**__ Yes, I parked it out front. Come, brother-"_ and here it was his turn to wrap his arm around Gilbert's shoulder, terrifying the albino even more so. The sensation was similar to a python slowly suffocating its prey. _"-let me show you to the__** car.**__"_

There was no car waiting for them as they passed through the automatic sliding doors and into the fresh (Polluted, actually), American air. There were buses and limos and taxis ('So that's where they are,' Gilbert thought.), and everything else, but no car. Gilbert almost asked the blond beside him what they were driving 'home' in when Ludwig withdrew a small grey clicker and pressed the lower button.

Across the road where the buses pulled in and out of, lights flashed.

"Scheiße."

Ludwig was giving Gilbert a look. A look that clearly read, 'I-am-totally-superior-to-you-because-of-this'. _"Well? How do you like the __**car?**__"_

As stated before, there was no car waiting for them when they left the airport building. There was no SUV either. What sat under the sun of the afternoon, the rays from above reflecting the highlighted back and hood, was the largest, most beautiful thing Gilbert had ever seen.

It was a truck.

"Dodge Ram 1500," Ludwig explained while they crossed the road to the ferocious beast. _"Got her in 2008."_

"_She's awesome."_ Gilbert's head barely reached the middle of the passenger side's window. _"Freakin' awesome. They don't have babes like this in Germany."_

"_The roads aren't big enough, so of course not." _

The two climbed in the vehicle, Gilbert savouring the feel of the door as the handle made a popping noise when it released. He leaned back in his seat. The interior was grey, just like the outside paint coat, but darker. Everything was so clean and so... _manly_. Screw his Porsche, he needed to import one of these babies when, or if, he ever returned home.

Ludwig slipped the key into the ignition. He turned it and the engine roared to life. Gilbert thought he was back on the plane, feeling the powerful vibrations shaking his entire body.

He looked at Ludwig and practically beamed. _"I could get used to this."_

_

* * *

_

For the first three days in America Gilbert did nothing but sleep, lounge on the couch, and eat. Every once in awhile he would go out just to check out the town, but most of the time he stayed indoors. Everything was so different. So... _American_. He didn't want to mingle with the neighbours. He didn't care about the TV shows because he couldn't understand them. Worst of all, Ludwig was gone during the day at the video store and that left Gilbert all by himself.

Ludwig wasn't as bad as Gilbert assumed at first. The man was stoic and, yes, rather OCD and sometimes Gilbert wondered if he was gay because of that damn fruity garden and interior of the home, but the man drank almost as much beer as him, watched the same movies as him, drove the most amazing truck in the world, and cooked pretty damn good sausages. So he couldn't be _that_ bad.

The two conversed in German inside the house. It was the only place, aside from the truck, they didn't have to act brother-brother in. Ludwig explained to Gilbert that he wasn't supposed to tell him about himself too much, just in case (Again, his uncle's paranoia. Who did he think these Russian's were, the KGB?). However he let slip that he did indeed work for Gilbert's uncle and had been living in America for almost seven years now, part of a small group that kept an eye on anyone his uncle sent over.

"_Like me?"_ Gilbert asked.

"_Exactly."_

"_Who else is here?"_

Ludwig shrugged. _"I don't know their real names, but there's a pair of siblings, similar to us-"_ He motioned with his hand as he said this. _"-a woman and a man, both from the area around Germany. I think the woman is from Belgium..."_

So there were only four more. Gilbert was amazed his uncle had such power over so many people. Were there more positioned in other countries? Did he have eyes all over the world? It was strange to think of his uncle, a man usually reserved and placid, being dominant and forceful. Sure he was scary, but that could hardly drive hundreds of men and women alike to work for him.

Ludwig startled Gilbert on Sunday morning with an announcement. _"I'm going to start training you at the store tomorrow."_

Gilbert, fork half-way to his mouth, paused in his devouring of the absolutely mind-blowing breakfast in front of him. Scrambled eggs with melted cheese, true German sausage, and hash browns. Whoopee. _"You're... what?"_

"_You should start. Feliciano is wondering about you and-"_

"_I thought he was in on this whole gig?"_ Gilbert demanded. _"Why is he going around blabbing about me __**starting**__ work? Shouldn't I have already worked there for years?"_

Ludwig sighed, _"He __**is**__. He just...He's..."_ What word could possibly describe the Italian? Eccentric? Flaky? Idiosyncratic? That last one sounded good, but he highly doubted Gilbert would understand what it meant. The man didn't seem to have a large vocabulary. _"Strange."_

"_So my life is sitting on the shoulders of a strange kid. Wonderful."_

"_You'll be fine."_

No, he wouldn't. Something was going to go wrong. Something always went wrong. If good luck existed Gilbert would never be in America in the first place.

He shoved another piece of egg into his mouth. There was far too much cheese, and it made his tongue scream over the greasiness. _"What time are we going?"_

"_Six."_

Great.

* * *

It wasn't at all what he imagined on the ride over (Of course, there was the whole childish glee about riding in such an awesome truck distracting him). The movie gallery was decent sized with the areas sorted by genre. The new releases were at the back wall, a whole array of different covers reflecting the bright lights above, while the older, VHS cassettes (Gilbert did a double take at the sight of them. Why were there so few?), were pushed in a small, dark corner. Lost and forgotten.

"_Not bad."_ Gilbert surveyed the room, red eyes darting all over the place. _"What's there?"_ He asked, pointing to a small arrow on an indented wall where what seemed a hallway led into.

Ludwig's cheeks darkened. _"The, um... adult only movies..."_

"_You sell pornos here?" _Gilbert shrieked with laughter. _"Awesome! Leave it to America to have such a raunchy section in a place anyone can shop! Tell me,__ Luddy,__ do **you** ever take out a flick from there?"_

The younger blond was slowly transforming into a platinum haired tomato. _"O-of course not! That's..._ Nein!"

"_Sure you don't. Got any girl on girl? Personally I enjoy that the most. You look like the type who might be more into BDSM or-"_ From underneath the counter, Ludwig snatched up a red and black set of shirts and pants. Gilbert continued to rattle on, not noticing the way the other German glared. Gilbert also missed how Ludwig pulled back his arm, aimed, then shot forwards.

For a moment, Gilbert was blind.

"_What the hell—I'm being attacked!"_ the albino wailed, clawing at the fabric that darkened his vision. _"This is so not cool! So not awesome! What is this—this..?" _Freed at last, he stared down at the uniform._ "My god, it's hideous."_

Ludwig resisted the strong urge to roll his eyes. _"Go put it on."_

"_This is uglier than what my grandmother used to wear. No, this is **worse**. You must have balls of steel to wear this thing in public."_

Ludwig's finger jabbed in the direction of the washrooms. His voice was cold. Commanding. _"Put. It. On."_

Meekly, Gilbert did as he was told.

As he thought, he looked horrible. The red blended in with his eyes, the black made his hair and pale skin look even whiter (If possible). He was a ghost. A ghost in a shit ugly suit. _"If I ever manage to get over this embarrassment, I promise I will be a better person."_

Ludwig was standing with his arms over his chest looking very unimpressed. _"Do you ever stop complaining?"_

"_Not usually."_

Oh, joy. Ludwig motioned to the cash register and began his lecture on how it, and everything else in the store, worked. He went through the procedure. If you had the opening shift you came in, turned on all the lights, then the heat. After, you went along the different movies to make sure they were all straight and none of them out of place. On and on he went, moving about the store, telling Gilbert what not to do if so and so happened, or what _to do_ if the situation called for it.

By five to seven, Ludwig was done. Gilbert's ears buzzed. He felt like he was a teenager again and being taught how to do his very first job. That hadn't gone over very well either... _"We're opening soon. Take the left register."_

"_Does it get busy?"_ Gilbert asked.

Ludwig shrugged. _"On the weekends, yes. Usually Friday evenings are the worst. On the day new releases come out, especially popular ones like the_ Harry Potter _series, it's rather crowded."_

He crossed the room to the front doors, flicked a couple locks, and stepped back. _"Oh, and you __**do **__speak English, right?"_

Gilbert's only response was a weak and feeble grin.

Ludwig sighed. He was going to commit suicide by the end of the day, he just knew it.


	3. Chapter Three

Sweating in the heat of the Florida sun, Mathew walked towards the video store. His skin, except for his face and hands, were covered in fabric. He couldn't chance anyone seeing his arms. Even his wrists. He silently cursed Alfred for everything he did, yet he kept walking. Mathew had no time to spare, and he really wanted to watch a new VHS.

Mathew especially liked the locally run store, "Movies plus", as it had a nice selection of older movies, as well as new ones, mixing old with new, and foreign with American movies. In Mathew's opinion, it really showed a lot about the owner.

Mathew had a bit of a crush on Ludwig, once upon a time. Mathew liked his clean-shaven face; he liked Ludwig's always gelled hair; he liked his stern yet thoughtful gaze; He liked Ludwig's muscles that were noticeable regardless of what kind of shirt he wore; he liked his German accent; he liked his kindness towards Mathew; he liked the way he put his all into everything he did. Mathew liked Ludwig, once upon a time.

It was a shame, Mathew worked so hard to learn a few simple phrases in German, so he could impress him. But then Ludwig asked about Alfred, or rather, he asked if Mathew was Alfred.

Mathew was always torn when people asked if he was his brother. Alfred didn't want people to know Mathew. Mathew was, after all, Alfred's dirty little secret. So even though Mathew longed to say, "No, that's my brother," he was forced to say, "Yes, that's me."

Mathew shook off the feeling of despair, and made his way into the air-conditioned store. It was like walking through an airlock. The air rushed out as the suctioned door opened, and a little bell ringed as it was disturbed.

Mathew walked through the security detectors standing guard, prepared to inform anyone of a theft. He nodded to Ludwig, who was kneeling while dusting the foreign movies section. Kiku was organizing the kids section, and Feliciano was trapped under a stack of newly fallen DVD's, whining for Ludwig's assistance.

Mathew walked to the VHS's, yet lingered by the foreign movies.

"Ah... hallo. Ve haf new releases frohm Germany ef yoh ahre interested..." Ludwig said with his lulling deep voice. Mathew smiled, but shook his head and carried on to the VHS's.

The radio played as Mathew browsed over the movie's and decided on "Scarface". Suddenly, the music changed to a tune that Mathew wasn't too familiar with, playing quite louder than the previous music.

Ludwig stood to his full height and walked over to the man at the front desk who, for lack of better words, was "shaking his money-maker". Ludwig glowered at him, speaking in slow, quiet German, as if the man were a child.

Mathew couldn't help but stare. The new man behind the counter was... Albino. He had white hair, and white skin. His eyebrows were almost non-existant, and they were perched upon his red eyes. That was a shocker. He had a strong build, probably toned, but nothing special.

After watching Ludwig stalk away from the albino and disappear back to the foreign films section, Mathew made his way up to the counter where the white haired man was fiddling with the hem of his extremely tacky shirt. "I'll take this one, thanks," Mathew said placing the VHS on the counter.

The man just stared back.

"... Vhat?" he replied. The two just stood there for a second, sharing an awkward silence.

"I want to rent this movie," Mathew told him, enunciating in a condescending tone. The other man just glared at him for a second in return. Mathew sighed "Listen..." He looked at the ugly name tag on the equally ugly shirt. "..._Gilbert_. Let me show you." He reached over the counter and took Gilbert's hand in his, guiding it to the scanner, and scanning the VHS. He then guided Gilbert's hands to the keyboard. "Code?"

"Ah... ja," Gilbert said, punching in his code. Mathew sighed. At least he knew what a code was in English.

"Ich bin Alfred Jones," Mathew told the employee in the horrible German he knew, giving him his fake name. Mathew handed Gilbert the exact money, and took the video.

"Danke," he said and moved to turn, but he was stopped by Gilbert who grabbed his hand.

"Vait. Du bist... ehrm, yoh ahre... geh, ja?" Mathew looked at him, shocked. How on earth could he know?

"Nein." He snatched his hand out from Gilbert's and walked through that same airlock and back into the sweltering heat.


	4. Chapter Four

**Another huge thank you for everyone that reviewed, faved, and put us on alert! DD and I never thought we'd get so much positive feedback! It's totally awesome ;D **

**So for you, fans, here's chapter four! **

**- Seb**

* * *

Gilbert didn't know when his mood started to turn. All he cared about was why.

Was it when his first customer, a grumpy, grey haired old man, came waddling up to his register, slapped a handful of movies down, then began raising his voice and yelling at Gilbert when the albino failed to use the device that popped the security bars along the opening of the movie cases properly?

Was it when Kiku, ever so shy and polite, accidentally split his coffee on Gilbert's already disgusting uniform, staining the side of the shirt an ugly(er) maroon?

Or was it when Feliciano (Whom Gilbert immediately found out was the definition of flighty) sent himself careening into a DVD stand in a moment of energetic glee, and ended up buried by the plastic cases, the _On Sale _sign leaning against his head as he remained belly down on the floor, crying out helplessly for Ludwig?

The turning point might have been when Gilbert lashed out at his fourth customer in frustration for his lack of knowledge of the country's language and Ludwig pulled him aside to scold him the same way a parent did to a small child. It might have been when he tried livening up the place and jacked the music, even though he didn't care for the English lyrics and the useless pop melodies, only to have his second lecture of the day by his 'younger brother'.

Gilbert wasn't sure, but it _might_ have been the blond in the red hoodie who grabbed his hand and did his job for him with that tired, impatient gleam in his blue-violet eyes. Gilbert couldn't remember being more humiliated. He had been treated as if he were stupid (Although, if he was honest, he sort of pinned that word to his forehead himself when all he said was 'What' and 'Yes' to his customers), and then his language had been brutally butchered by the blond.

Not that Gilbert complimented English in any way. But that was beside the point.

So when the red hoodie'd man turned to leave, Gilbert wanted nothing more than to scream his rage at him and his horrible German. He wanted to grab the blond by the front and throw him to the side, shrieking, "_It's not_ Ich bin, _it's _Ich **heiße**!" He wanted to feel the blond's face against his fist. He wanted to stand there laughing, knowing that he had won, as the blond withered in pain beneath him. He wanted to conquer the place and prove he was _not_ a useless immigrant. He was German, dammit! The blood of the Teutonic Knights filled his veins! There was no one with a richer ancestry than him! How could he possibly be treated with such disrespect? By a frickin' _American_ no less!

But when the blond shifted and headed for the door, Gilbert saw a large figure appear in the corner of his vision. Ludwig stood with his rippling arms folded over his chest, a glare bending his brow inward, lips twisted so drastically downward it would make Scrooge look happy. Gilbert was being watched. The music stunt had him on surveillance now.

The anger just wouldn't go away. Despite knowing he was under scrutiny, Gilbert took three large strides to the entrance behind the counter and reached out to grab the blond. He managed to wrap his fingers around the man's hand, capturing the North American's attention easily. Then with his broken English he stumbled out the single question that was meant to deal more damage than one would assume. Are you gay?

It sounded better in his head than it did coming out. He stumbled over the vowels, mixing up the sounds in a clumsy mess. But the distaste was clear regardless of his pronunciation problems. And even though he knew he would get an angry blond German on his ass soon, the look of shock and indignation on the red hoodie'd American's face was worth it.

As the movie gallery's door close, a small bell tinkled, signalling the leave of the affronted customer, Gilbert grinned. Ah, sweet, sweet victory. The people of the U.S.A. were supposed to be rude pricks. Why was this guy being so damn weak and polite? It made pushing him around almost too easy.

Predictably, Ludwig materialized behind him within half a second of the door shutting. "Please, tehl me vhat I saw did _noht_ just happen."

Gilbert turned, brow creased. "_What?"_

"_You asked him if he was gay?"_ Instead of the anger Gilbert had been expecting (Fearing) to be blasted with, Ludwig was aghast. Terrified. He looked oddly pale. Not that the man was tanned to begin with or anything, but this was a sick, pasty kind of pale. "_You __**asked**_ _him—__**him**_ _of all people—if he was_ _**gay?**_"

Gilbert wasn't sure if he was supposed to answer or not. Rhetorical questions sometimes weren't always as rhetorical as them seemed. So he tried beating around the bush. "_Is he important or something?"_

Ludwig's eyes bugged along with his temper. _Finally_ it clicked in his mind he should be mad instead of dumbfounded. "_Important?" _he squeaked, voice cracking with the effort of restraining his rage. The sound might have been funny coming from such a big, baritone man had Gilbert not been worried about his face being punched in. "_That was Alfred Jones! The son of Pastor Jones! You don't ask a customer if they're __**gay**__, let alone the son of a __**pastor**__!"_

"_Oh, lay off. Did you see what he did to me? He was touching me and-"_

"_So because he knew how to do your job better than you, you asked him if he was gay?"_

Gilbert flashed a wicked grin, one that sent shivers down Ludwig's (and anyone else watching the foreign squabble) spine. "_Awesome idea, right? His face was priceless! You saw it, didn't you? It was great."_

"_Is this all a joke to you?"_ Ludwig was raising his voice at this point. He took a step closer to Gilbert, making the albino weary again. "_You insult my customers, screw up your work, and worst of all you make my store look bad. This has to stop, Gilbert."_

Gilbert snorted and moved towards the computer with the scanner attached to it. His water bottle, half empty, was sitting still beside the keyboard. "_Lighten up a little would you? No need to take things so seriously. It's only a game of house."_

He was barely in mid-reach when a massive hand grabbed his collar and jerked him back to where he stood moments ago. Gilbert yelped (In an extremely manly way), feeling the edge of the counter press against his lower back as Ludwig stood in front of him, apathetic eyes uncharacteristically burning red. "_This might be a game to __**you**__, Gilbert, but this is reality for me. This is my job. My store. My customers are to be treated with respect, not chided and bullied around because your ego was bruised."_

Gilbert's laugh was more of a hissing between his clenched teeth. "_Kesese... And you think I __**care?**_ _This set up is a joke. I mean, a movie renting store? My uncle was right to think nobody would look for me in a pathetic dump like this."_

There was a moment where Gilbert thought Ludwig might strike him. The blond's body tensed, his right hand raised ever so slightly, then it fell the few centimetres it had lifted to his side. Ludwig sucked in a deep breath before he spoke. His hand came up again and he pressed his finger into Gilbert's chest hard enough to force the albino's back to bend over the counter, releasing the man by the collar all at once. "_You were sent to me for protection because your uncle is a considerate and powerful man, and I respect him. But my loyalty is to __**him**__, not you. Piss me off enough and I will leave you on the side of the road with no travel papers or visa. Nothing."_

"_Get rid of me? Then how would my considerate and powerful uncle pay you?"_

"_You'd be surprised how little I care about money." _Ludwig leaned in closer and Gilbert had to bend backwards even more to try and keep the distance between them semi-comfortable. There was a quiver trembling in his right arm. He wasn't sure if it was from the awkward position it was bent in or the fact Ludwig was looking eerily like the 'Big Brother' Russian with the scarf.

"_Smarten up."_ With those being his final words, Ludwig gave a withering glare and stalked off back to the foreign film section, bypassing Feliciano (Who crowed the European's name in delight, crushed arms trying to wriggle free) completely.

Leaving Gilbert standing with his back still bent over the counter, a flare of embarrassment growing inside of him. For once, he was glad he was stuck in a country that didn't speak German because he was certain Kiku and Feliciano were closet eavesdroppers.

* * *

"Ludwig is always hard on the new workers."

Gilbert started, pulled hard out of his own thoughts. The large green chalkboard behind the blonde woman serving the older man in front of him was written in bubbly English words. Words Gilbert couldn't understand. The lack of his knowledge of the language wasn't aggravating him as much, shockingly, because the chalkboard reminded him of being back in Germany where the cafés used the exact same things.

He had been remembering the last time Elizabeta took him with her and Roderich to one of the similar places in their town. Roderich had been tricked into paying for their drinks, something that the cheap bastard was livid about for nearly a week, snubbing both his girlfriend and friend when they tried to talk to him. They only managed to cheer him up by buying him a new set of sheet music for his piano.

Gilbert would be lying if he said he didn't miss his home already. It was barely over a week since he came to the United States and already he was reminiscing about everyone and everything in Europe. But he'd be damned if he admitted the fact aloud. Pride didn't come cheap. Wasn't that what his uncle taught him years and years ago?

Kiku was standing by his side, waiting patiently for an answer with his slender hands over his lap. The little Japanese man was sweet. Not the same _sugary-enough-that-it-rots-your-teeth-after-eating-too-much_ kind of sweet like Feliciano, but something more along the subtle lines. He kept to himself, watching instead of interrupting. He didn't scold or lecture like Ludwig when someone did something wrong. Instead he softly corrected them, especially with Gilbert. He understood how the albino's English was horrible, and he took the time to change his sentences, or word them very simple. Unlike most who threw their arms in the air in frustration after Gilbert asked 'vhat?' for the thirteenth time.

And the kid actually pulled off the hideous red uniform. Seriously, you could almost say he looked _good_ in it. That was mega respect right there.

Gilbert rubbed at his neck. His shift had finished at two, and with Ludwig still mad at him there was no way he'd get the keys to the truck anytime soon to drive home. Although, he doubted even if Ludwig was married to him he'd let the older German drive his precious baby. Gilbert would either need to walk or wander the town until Ludwig was done his own shift at five. "Hard? Ja, he eez dat."

Kiku's lips quirked into a smile, amused from the mistranslation. "You will learn to grow used to it overtime."

"Vhat?"

"You will learn," Kiku simplified. "It is not hard work."

Gilbert snorted. Hard work? The work was (somewhat) easy. It was the people, the culture, the socializing, that was impossible.

The man in front of them was handed his order and shuffled out of sight. The blond woman smiled at the two, eyes crinkling in the corners from age. She spoke to Kiku in rapid English, too fast for Gilbert to even comprehend the basic words. Kiku just smiled back at her and softly asked for something with a long title. Then he turned to Gilbert and asked with a polite tilt of his head, "What do you want?"

"Kaffee." Gilbert didn't really feel like coffee, but it was the only word he could say that sounded remotely similar to English.

Their orders were quick enough, Gilbert's the fastest by being poured into a small Styrofoam cup and placed on the counter in a record time of five seconds, and Kiku even paid. Not that he had much of a choice, since Gilbert didn't bother to offer using the green ten dollar bill (He learned all the American bills were green awhile ago. How boring. Euro bills, hell, even the _Canadian_ bills were better looking!) Ludwig had handed him around ten that morning, muttering something about lunch at the local deli in the mall.

With no way home and no one else to hang around, Gilbert followed the Asian to a bench near the payphones.

"So, how... lange, euh, nein... Long! Ja, _long_, have yoh vork hier?"

"How long have I worked in the video store?" At Gilbert's nod, Kiku turned his head away to stare straight ahead. His coffee, an identical cup like Gilbert's only with a lid and a little brown stick protruding from the drink hole, was cradled between his lithe hands, warming them. "Almost a year. I used to help in the soup kitchens at the Salvation Army before this."

A silence lifted and Kiku looked at Gilbert, wondering, only to see the German's extremely confused face. "Oh, sorry. Um... I have worked here a year."

"Vhat vas ahll dat aftur?" Gilbert motioned with his hand when Kiku tilted his head. "Ahll dohes... _vords_. Soup und at de vhat?"

"The Salvation Army." Kiku smiled as Gilbert tried pronouncing the words on his own ("Sahlvetion Ahrmy..."). "It is charity work."

"Cherity?"

"Yes. Helping those who need help. Shelter, food, blankets, clothes..."

Gilbert was lost after 'yes', but he pretended to be listening for the uncharacteristic sake of being polite. The boy bought him coffee after all. Remembering the beverage in his hand, Gilbert took a sip of his drink and immediately recoiled when the scalding black liquid touched his tongue. A small wave of darkness leapt out and onto his shirt, joining the dried stain the Asian sitting beside him did hours ago.

"Verdammt!" Gilbert swore. He ignored Kiku horrible act of disguising a laugh with a cough, and briefly wondered if the Asian didn't bother to warn him of the heat out of forgetfulness or amusement.

Most likely the latter. The Japanese were renown for being ruthless and coy.

"Vhy did yoh schtop?" Gilbert asked after dabbing at his front with the napkin Kiku had kindly enough gone to get him. As exhilarating as mentally taunting Gilbert for his complete failure at drinking coffee was, a conversation would be a lot nicer. "Der soup noh good?" He made the same laugh between his teeth from before. Damn, he was friggin' _hilarious_.

Kiku didn't smile. He removed the brown stick from his lid and took a swig of his own drink (Gilbert leered venomously at how the smaller male didn't burn himself), then momentarily fiddled with the little stick. "They did not think I was... _fit_ for the job."

Gilbert frowned. "Oh." What did being athletic have to do with serving soup? Were the bowls that heavy? America was a strange place. "So yoh came _hier?_"

This time Kiku laughed. A quiet tinkle that suited him perfectly. "Yes, I came here."

"Yoh ahre crazy."

"As are you."

Brown eyes slid to meet crimson, and identical smiles curved both their lips.

Kiku stood to leave when he finished his coffee. His shift was done at the same time as Ludwig's, five, and his break was only supposed to last twenty minutes. He threw his empty cup into the garbage can by the mall entrance of the movie store and looked at Gilbert, still smiling. "I'm glad your back from your vacation, Gilbert. It was... lonely without you." He waved good-bye. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Gilbert understood none of what was said, but he took a guess and mimicked the gesture of farewell. He watched the tiny Japanese man disappear into the store and thought to himself how thankful he was for having a short shift.


	5. Chapter Five

Mathew had just finished watching his movie. It was a classic, and he could somehow relate to shooting everyone. It seemed so satisfying, so relieving, and he kept imagining the gangsters to be Alfred.

He turned over on the couch, and pulled up his sleeve, examining the marks again. The newest mark had dried up, and was taught where the skin was starting to grow anew.

Turning over and throwing his arm up over his eyes, he focused all his imagination on putting himself in the scene where Pacino had the machine gun, and imagined just shooting Alfred, the bullets tearing through his skin, and flesh, making little holes, his blood spraying and spilling onto the floor. He put his energy into trying to believe it was real, that Alfred would never walk, never breathe, never talk or hurt him again.

Mathew thought long and hard at the prospect, killing his own brother. Like Cain and Abel. Wasn't Cain the lesser brother? The Brother who seemed to be meeker, yet more wicked than Abel? He had been starting to sympathize with him. Was Abel forgiven by God because he worshipped Him? Would Cain ever be forgiven?

Mathew curled up on the couch for a second before getting up to remove the tape from the VCR. Alfred knew of his renting movies, but Mathew wasn't sure if Alfred would approve of Scarface. He put the VCR back downstairs, in his basement before walking back up to wait for Alfred.

Mathew didn't have to wait long, though. He had sat down to put on the church channel, when Alfred burst through the door.

"Mattie! Hey buddy! I brought back burgers today, your favourite!" he exclaimed. It was true that Mathew had told Alfred burgers were his favourite, but that was because Alfred had a crazed look in his eye at the time, and a knife.

"Great. How was your day, Al?" Mathew asked out of sheer politeness. What a screwed up relationship.

"Oh it was just great." He cheerfully chattered away, "The church service was great, and we even got a new person in our church! Everyone complimented me on my cookies after the service, and it was just great."

Mathew listened, and he had a flashback of when they were kids and Alfred would drag Mathew out to learn how to roller skate, or he would make Mathew push him on a skate board down their driveway.

"Oh yeah. When are we going to get rid of our VHS and get a DVD player?" he asked.

"I told you, Mathew, DVD's are the devils creation," Alfred said solemnly.

Mathew feigned a smile and bit into his burger. Any memory of Alfred being a nice child vanished.

His burger was too greasy, and leaked condiments. Mathew was grossed out by it all, but he had to eat something, so he took a few more bites.

"Hey Al? I'm not feeling too well; I think I'm going to go to sleep," he said, getting up to wash his dishes.

"Fine then, be a pussy," Alfred said, glaring. "If you are going to sleep, make sure you lock yourself in. Don't make me do it myself." He took another bite into his burger.

Mathew waved over his shoulder and walked back into his basement. He didn't bother turning on the light, he just let his eyes adjust to the lack of light in the basement. Besides, the only monster that could possibly be in the dark would be Al, and he was left upstairs, and Pastor Jones was dead. Mathew curled up on his mattress, not bothering to lock himself up. He didn't think that Al would check, since he hadn't lately.

Mathew started drifting into a lulling sleep. His sleep was interrupted by flashes of dreams. He had a flash of his parents, but everything was fuzzy. He dreamt of Alfred and him trying to make pancakes. The dream extended into when they were kids, and Alfred was holding Mathew up on skates, promising to not let Mathew fall, or hurt himself. Mathew woke from that dream for a moment before settling again.

Mathew drifted into sleep again, more easily than he had before, but that was upset as well. He dreamt of Pastor Jones, crawling out of his grave and chasing after him, Mathew couldn't get away. Everywhere he turned, the zombie pastor was there, clawing and groaning at him, black bile draining out of his mouth. Suddenly, the zombie grabbed his wrist. It was cold, and dug into Mathew's skin. He was falling then, the claw still wrapped around his wrist. He saw the ground coming closer and closer, when something crashed into his ribs.

Screaming in pain, Mathew woke up in a hurry, his heart pounding hard, and adrenaline running on high. Through bleary eyes, he saw Alfred standing beside his bed.

Alfred raised his leg, and slammed his foot into Mathew's ribs again, and again.

"What did I tell you about locking yourself up? What did I say about making me do it myself?" he yelled. Mathew had the wind knocked right out of him as he heard an audible crack coming from his ribs. He wanted to yell, but he was breathing too fast to make a sound. Alfred turned around and left Mathew; left him to be alone in his pain.

Mathew tried to breathe as deeply and slowly as possible without injuring his cracked ribs too much. His heart was still beating hard, and Mathew's eyes watered. He didn't let more than a tear slip, though. He was in pain, yes, but he wasn't depressed, or upset. He was just angry. He didn't care about Alfred's promise to make sure he didn't hurt himself. Mathew didn't even know if that was real, or if it was a false illusion, made by Mathews subconscious to cling onto the good that he thought was in Alfred. He wanted vengeance.

He started to shake his leg in anticipation. Mathew didn't want to sleep, or go back to his fractured dreams, he wanted to thrash, and tell Alfred to suck it. But he would need to nurse his ribs first. And make a plan.


	6. Chapter Six

**Ka-CLACK.  
Ka-CLACK.**

"Kesese..."

**Ka-CLACK. Ka-CLACK. KA-CLACK.****  
****Ka... Ka...**

"Was? Warum?"

Shuffling could be heard as a figure turned their toy around in their hand to inspect it. Quietness lifted in the store for a moment.

Then...

**KA-CLACK!**

"Ah, scheiße!"

Somewhere behind Feliciano something heavy hit the ground, bouncing only once before falling silent. The curse that followed the sound was foreign, but the Italian knew from hearing Ludwig hiss it more than once that it wasn't very nice. "Ve? Are you alright, Gilberto?"

If Gilbert knew English, he probably would have said that 'alright' was completely opposite to what he felt at the moment. But as it stood his vocabulary grew slower than grass, and although he had been exposed to all kinds of American people speaking their American language for nearly a week, he still knew just as much as the day he arrived in the country.

So instead of shooting back a smart reply he most likely would have thought up if he spoke better English, he whirled on his co-worker of the day, hand clenched tightly around a bleeding index finger, and snapped a sharp, snotty, "Vhat?"

Feliciano's eyes enlarged frighteningly wide at the sight of Gilbert's wound. "Gilberto, what did you do?" he cried, instantly abandoning the _Florida Table _magazine on the counter top in favour of rushing to the albino's side.

Gilbert scowled in an act to keep his masculinity as he allowed his hand to be taken into Feliciano's much smaller and much softer ones. Who was he to ignore such attention when it was laid out in front of him effortless on his part? If Ludwig were on shift he probably would have stood there glaring with those huge arms of his crossed over his chest, sneering at the way Gilbert soaked up the simpers and pity from the naive little Italian.

"Dat-" Gilbert pointed with his free, un-harmed finger to the metallic staple gun laying motionless on the floor where it had been dropped seconds earlier. "-vhent vonkey und bite me."

"It bit you?" Feliciano's terrified gaze flickered to the destructive weapon momentarily. Then he looked up at Gilbert, releasing the man's hand quickly. As if scared the bleeding wound might be contagious. "I'll go find you the spray stuff Ludwig uses on me! And bandages! Oh, and I'll give you some of my pasta for lunch because it always makes me feel better, and-"

"Noh, noh." Gilbert waved the boy away, unable to understand any of what was being said. All Feliciano did was make noise atop of noise. Sometimes the kid was cute. _Really _cute. But other times Gilbert's head felt so close to exploding he began contemplating drilling a hole into his skull to lessen the pressure. "Eht's two o'clohck, so I goh anyvays. Schtop talking so laud..."

If Feliciano was at all insulted by the rude command, he didn't show it. Years of getting on Ludwig's bad side, _and_ his older brother's immuned him from such cruelties. Being around them finally paid off for s_omething _at least. "Ve, okay! But it looks bad, so I'll get you bandages at least."

All Gilbert understood was 'looks bad' as the smaller worker fled into the back room, dodging around the staple gun wearily. He guessed Feliciano was right. The staple had gone through his finger by the right side, part of it folded through the air whilst the other curved itself inside his skin. The pain was a dull throbbing now, but the blood continued to leak out. In reality it looked worse than it felt. He'd done the exact same thing before multiple times, and neither of them were excruciatingly painful. It was the shock of it happening that was the most unbearable.

How did someone manage to staple themselves with a gun, you might be asking? Well, when no customers showed up on a Thursday afternoon, and no Ludwig to bother or no Kiku to try and mooch coffee off of, the amount of entertainment was extremely limited. Feliciano could only provide fun for a few hours until his incessant chatter grew unbearable. Gilbert had resorted to fiddling with the items laying about the counter, and the staple gun just happened to be one of them. A few test tries with the trigger and a 'malfunction' lead to the German putting his fingers against the mouth in confusion. Probably not his smartest achievement.

Then again, he _was_ the guy who got deported from his country because of bragging over a fight he really shouldn't have been in in the first place. So it wasn't really all that surprising he managed to mutilate his own finger.

Gilbert left _Movie Plus_ nearly twenty minutes after his shift's end. Feliciano had become distracted by a customer, the perfect excuse to escape. It took a bit, but the staple was easy to get out with a pair of tweezers from the store bathroom (why they were in there, neither Gilbert or Feliciano knew), and Gilbert didn't have the heart or the vocabulary to tell Feliciano that strips of ripped paper weren't a very good substitute for bandages. He held them to his bleeding finger regardless, and only when he left the store through the outside entrance did he toss them away.

Ludwig was part-way out of his truck when he spotted Gilbert leaving. "Vhat took yoh so long?"

"_Feliciano wouldn't shut up," _Gilbert said, switching into German while he moved to the passenger side of the truck.

Ludwig frowned at his 'brother', but climbed back in to the driver's seat and re-started the truck. It gave a loud, ground rumbling roar of life. The younger European didn't miss the way Gilbert's lips curved upwards at the sound. "_Why?"_

"_What do you mean 'why'? Does he need a reason? He __**never **__shuts up." _Gilbert reached behind him for the seat belt (he only just started putting it on, courtesy to another lecture by Ludwig about 'safety in vehicles') and he turned his torso to plug the silver head into the lock.

The flash of dried crimson caught Ludwig's attention easily. "_What happened?"_

If Gilbert didn't know any better he might have sensed some worry in the mammoth's tone. "_Oh, this? Just a little scrap with the staple gun, nothing to worry about."_

Blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. "_Dare I ask you to elaborate?" _God knows the man was stupid enough to staple his own finger.

Gilbert's sheepish grin confirmed his theory. Without bothering to ask more, Ludwig began reversing out of the mall parking lot. "_Right..."_

Compared to the cars of Europe, Ludwig's 'baby' was absolutely massive. But it seemed in North America, especially the United States, trucks like the blond's were common, if not a sign of manliness. No other drivers were intimidated by the sheer size of the vehicle as it rolled up beside their puny little Hondas and Chryslers. Only the people on the sidewalks gave a passing look of impress. Everyone else ignored the rumbling purr of the engine either because they were used to the sound or simply jealous they didn't have such a gorgeous ride to motor around town in.

Probably the latter. After all, Gilbert always rode fashionably, and Ludwig's Dodge was the definition of _style_.

Curving off from the main highway back to their house, Gilbert frowned at the odd switch of lanes and continued to turn his lips downwards as they took a right back into the town instead of the usual left two blocks down. "_Where're we going?"_

"_I'm depositing my cheque."_

"_Why?"_

Ludwig shot the other man a look that could only be read as 'did-you-really-just-ask-that?' then spoke in that same slow, condescending tone he always used with Gilbert when explaining something that really shouldn't have to be explained, "_So I have money to pay for bills. Since __**someone**__ doesn't bother."_

"_Wait, are you saying I get paid?"_ Gilbert practically glowed at the hesitant nod he received. He pumped his fists into the air, kicking his legs in minuscule motions (there wasn't much room to flail around). "_Are you serious? I'm getting paid for doing a shit job? This is __**so**__ much better than staying back in Germany and getting killed by a Russian mob!"_

Ludwig's sigh was partly a scowl. Whether it was because he had let slip to Gilbert the man was able to receive money, or his store had been insulted yet again, even he wasn't sure. It was probably more about the fact he was stuck with this idiot albino for God knows how long.

They pulled into the bank parking lot. There was a drive through ATM, but the truck was far too tall (let alone wide) to go through the roof'd area. Ludwig unlocked his seat belt, hearing the familiar whirl of the axis inside as the belt returned to its rolled position. He popped open the driver's door and paused. Glancing over his shoulder he told Gilbert (who was uncomfortably bouncing in his spot, muttering to himself about what he might spend his money on. Nothing legal, of course), "_Stay here."_

"Ja, ja." Gilbert brushed the command aside without much thought, returning to his plotting gleefully.

Ludwig narrowed his eyes in a leer, but jumped out of the truck and closed the door behind him regardless.

Inside the truck, Gilbert watched the lumbering figure disappear into the bank. Of course Ludwig wanted to manually deposit money. Someone as anal as him _would_ be paranoid about cash. Gilbert hissed a laugh and leaned back against the window of the passenger door, chin resting in a thoughtful pose. He wondered how much he made an hour. Knowing Ludwig not very much. The man was pretty cheap. Maybe he could save up enough and get his own place. He didn't _have_ to live with Ludwig, right? He'd never be able to pick up chicks! "Hey, why don't we head back to my brother's place..? Yeah, he's the baby of the family... I'm too poor to have my own house... No, no he can't join us."

Fuck, he was screwed. Or lack of.

All jot gone, Gilbert leaned his head against the passenger window, and glanced around the outside. It was then he saw it. The familiar red shield with the white writing. Only, from where he sat the words were blurred and impossible to make out. But the logo was unmistakable.

Die Heilsarmee.

"_Something German in America?"_ Gilbert grinned wickedly. No way. He _had_ to see this.

It was Ludwig's mistake to not lock the trust when he left to the bank. Honestly, he shouldn't have left Gilbert alone at all. When he came back to his seat almost five minutes later he started up the truck, turned to reverse, and nearly gave himself whiplash slamming on the brakes when he realized there was no German sitting beside him. "_What the..?-__**GILBERT!**__"_

But it was too late. Gilbert had already taken off crossing the parking lot and street towards the door of the building the red shield hung above. He grasped the cool handle of the door and pulled, not noticing how the thin scab over his finger cracked, and blood began drizzling out very slowly.

He walked into the second hand store, the scent of moth balls and slight, musky sweat filled the air. He wrinkled his nose, but after a moment of simply browsing grew too used to it to notice.

The store was like a big box, the back with drapery and linen no one wanted, the air thick and quiet. There were racks split up according to gender and articles of clothing. He walked to another wall where a bunch of VHS tapes sat. Gilbert recognized their ancient design and thought of last Sunday when Alfred rented one. What kind of person used VHS when the era was obviously DVD? Soon everything would be 3D, and that blond was stuck in the 90's? Poor guy.

The male clothes racks looked like they'd gone through some kind of crazy time warp. There were long underwear and tweed jackets _everywhere_. It was worse than his frickin' work uniform. With a wrinkled nose, Gilbert pulled aside the scratchy clothes, pinching a tiny piece of fabric between his fingers to do so. He didn't want whatever gross germs the cryptic articles might have, after all.

Towards the back he spotted something dark red. He tugged a hideous flower printed button up away to reach out and snatch the desired item. It was a bandana, crimson and plaid. Totally not old-fashioned. It was actually in style.

The albino moved towards one of the many full-length mirrors in the store and put the cloth against his neck. It matched his skin great. If only he wasn't wearing his disgusting work outfit, then maybe he could see how it would match the shirt underneath.

He snorted. Screw it. If it matched his hair he'd wear it with something dark to bring it out. He looked at the price and was pleased to see the price at only fifty cents. So this place was as cheap as good ol' Germany too. "Sehr gut," he murmured, completely oblivious to the stare he received from the woman on his left.

As he turned towards the counter, Gilbert dug into his pants and pulled out what was left of the money Ludwig had given him not too long ago. He'd only needed to pay for a couple things, coffee mostly, and an ice-cream with Feliciano once, so more than half of it was still there. Besides, who knew how long it would be until cheap-Ludwig forked over some more dough? Gilbert had to savour it.

Reaching the counter, Gilbert placed the bandana down with two quarters atop the smooth fabric. He glanced around. No cashier. Well, damn. That wasn't awesome at all.

There was a little silver bell sitting on the counter, shining maliciously under the light above him, and it caught his eye.

How could he resist?

A blond his height (Although smaller in frame) came hurrying over during the thirtieth ding. Gilbert was smirking lewdly, one elbow resting on the counter while pressing the little silver nub in a painfully repetitive motion. "Sorry about that," the blond chirped, far too cheerful for someone who hadn't been at his post when he was most needed.

Gilbert grumbled something that might have been a hybrid of English and German. Whether or not the blond understood he didn't quite care, he just pushed his wanted item closer to the cashier. While saying something else in rapid English, the man (Or kid, depends on how old you thought he was) punched in something on the register and out popped a drawer. He threw the quarters in and closed it, ripping a recipe from a little machine skillfully and laying it atop the bandana.

"Would you like a bag, sir?"

Gilbert glanced up and over and looked at the blond. Really looked. His reply (The usual 'yes') faded on his tongue before he even began to pronounce it.

Standing behind the counter was the kid from last Sunday. Alfred. The pastor's son.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Alfred continued to smile at him, although it was beginning to appear forced. It was the same dirty blond hair. Same round eyes. Same slender face and horribly square near-sighted glasses. Same thin, pink lips. Same... everything...

But yet, nothing was actually the _same_. It was all just similar.

"Is there something on my face?" Alfred asked after what was probably minutes of awkward silence and staring.

Gilbert continued to leer at him. "Are yoh... Ahlfred? De pahstor's son?" he finally asked.

The cashier nodded, albeit a little weary. "And _how_ do you know my name, Mysterious... Albino-Man?"

"I vork aht movie schtore." Gilbert motioned to his clothes. "Yoh know... Vee-Ehch-Ess?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Movie schtore. Vhere yoh vent on Suhnday."

Alfred's smile became apologetic. "Sorry, but that's impossible. I wasn't anywhere near Ludwig's store Sunday."

This wasn't the reaction he wanted. Where was the anger? The humiliation from before? Gilbert leaned closer, reaching out to grasp Alfred's wrist. The same one he'd touched last time. "I know yoh're gey."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The woman from before stopped in her scrounging of the clothes racks to turn with an expression defined only as flabbergasted. Gilbert knew the Heilsarmee was Christian. If this was the American equivalent, that fact wouldn't change. If he was really the Alfred from the movie store then he would do exactly as he did before. He would rip his wrist away, he'd scowl and grow defensive and-

Laugh. Alfred was laughing. Not just a normal laugh either. It was the kind of laugh one did when they heard something absolutely hilarious. "Aha, that's a good one!" Alfred wheezed through his hysterics. He completely ignored the pasty fingers gripping him. "Man, I haven't been told a joke that funny in the Lord knows how long."

Gilbert's narrowed eyes grew into a full blown glare. This guy wasn't pulling his leg. This was _not_ the Alfred from the store. This was another guy. Someone who looked almost the same, who sounded almost the same, who talked almost the same. But wasn't.

He clearly had a different personality, and was louder than before. Obnoxious now that Alfred was beginning to chatter on about something with 'homo' in it a lot. Gilbert searched his face. There was absolutely no recognition on it. What the hell was going on? Ludwig had said that the guy in the store on Sunday was Alfred, the pastor's son, and yet this guy here was...

Gilbert released the blond. Alfred giggled something about how funny he found the joke and Gilbert forcefully twisted his lips into a smirk. "Ja, I dought yoh'd like dat."

"You know, I thought today was going to be boring. I mean, Jessica got sick and called me to take her shift," Alfred sighed dramatically, hands working away at bagging the small bandana with the receipt inside. "I didn't know what to do. I have stuff to take care of at home, y'know? But being the hero I am, of course I saved her. Everything was so _dull_ and then you came along and—wow, that was great. Never thought someone would come out and say something so funny!"

Alfred was beaming. Gilbert just wanted his bag so he could get the hell out of there. "Say, what's your name? Are you part of the congregation yet?"

"Gilbert, und... uh... a vhat? Congreh..?"

"_Con-gre-gation_. Like, church. You're Christian, right?" Alfred's eyes had a gleam to them. A gleam Gilbert had seen before in many others. Germans with too much to drink wanting a fight, Russians with long scarves and cheerful voices laced with malice. _Danger, danger,_ the gleam said. _Escape while you can._

But Gilbert was horrible with listening to warning signs. How else did he end up in America?

"Ja, I am." Liar. "I juhst cahme here und ahm noht used to de... town." He paused. Should he ask? Would it be too forwards?

Alfred beat him to it, practically leaping at the opportunity. "So you need help right? That's awesome, because I'm totally the person to ask! I'll take you on Sunday to the church, just meet me here at eight and we can drive there and-"

Gilbert left the Heilsarmee with his bandana tucked under his one arm, Sunday completely booked with extreme Christian bonding, and a mind thoroughly disturbed. Almost two weeks into his (Illegal) immigration and already he had found trouble to stick his nose in. But it was nagging him, the strange double Alfreds. Why didn't Ludwig or Kiku, or even Feliciano see the difference between them? And if they were brothers of some sort why did Ludwig tell him the pastor only had one son? Something was going on. He had to figure it out. It's not like he had lots in his life to occupy himself with anyways.

Back in the Salvation Army, Alfred hummed to himself as he tidy the counter, wiping it down with a damp cloth. He paused at the silver bell. The top was coated with a thin layer of crimson. Blood? Had Gilbert been bleeding? Or was it already there from before? Shrugging, the blond picked up the object and placed it on a lower shelf in the back where it would be undoubtedly forgotten. It was too annoying to have up anyways.

* * *

**A/N: Wow crazy amount of support for this story! Thank you so, so much for it, you guys! Each fav, watch and reviews makes DD and I grin like little kids :D**

**- Seb**


	7. Chapter Seven

**A/N: Thank you again you guys for your support, it's so awesome. Awesome like Prussia. We're crazy happy for all of it!**

**Just wanted to put an extra little note here since it wasn't done before (forgotten) and there might be some readers confused, although we (think we) make it pretty clear... If the words are in _italics_, it means the characters are speaking in another language that's _not_ English. For the most part in this story it'll be German.**

**_IMPORTANT NOTE:_ Once we post next chapter next week, _Run Together_ will be going on a two week hiatus due to the spring break coming up. DD and I will be travelling without internet, so unfortunately, our next chapter will have to wait until April (I think... Don't quote me on that). Sorry you guys! D: But we'll totally make it up to you with awesome chapters! :D**

**- Seb and DD**

* * *

"I ahm telling yoh, Kiku, dere ist someding going on."

"Don't be silly, Gilbert. Why would there be two Alfreds?" Kiku took a sip of his coffee before shuffling the flashcards on his lap. It was Saturday afternoon and the two were on their break, continuing yet another one of their coffee grabbing tradition. Gilbert was starting to enjoy the company of the little man. Although the timid weariness of trying to avoid topics one another might be offended at, or, in Gilbert's case, unable to say exactly what he wanted to say because of the still strong language barrier, was really starting to tick the albino off. But they meshed well enough, he supposed. Kiku was even helping him with his English, so he couldn't be too bad.

"... Fahyer plehce," Gilbert said when seeing the picture of a stereotypical red flame above a small stack of logs on the card Kiku raised for him to see.

"Try to say fire instead of fayer. F-_eye_r. F-_eye_r place."

"Feyer plehce," Gilbert echoed.

He watched Kiku nod in acceptance and took a swig of his own coffee while waiting for the darker haired man to choose another card.

Kiku didn't look up from skimming through his small stack of flashcards when he spoke after a stuffy moment of silence, "It's true that the Alfred in the Salvation Army is different than the Alfred who comes into the store, but he can be quite moody and quiet at times. Some people say that it is because he had a massive brain injury as a child. Could that explain it?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Mahybe... Buht vhy vould he geht a vihdeo ehvry Sonntag?"

"Sonntag? Oh, you mean Sunday. I'm really not sure, maybe he has to rent it for someone? If he has to get a movie _every_ Sunday, I'm sure that he would become rather irritated by it."

Gilbert just stared blankly at his friend. "_Vhat_..?"

Kiku glanced up. Then he quickly looked down again, cheeks flaring in embarrassment for having ranted much too quickly. Detective work could do that to a person. "I—I mean... If Alfred came to the store every Sunday, would he not grow tired of it? Perhaps it's only coincidence that he has shown up on the days you work..."

"Cohincedent?"

"It means something happens by chance." Kiku held up a card with a picture of a long, rod-shaped green _thing_ with lumps.

Gilbert squinted. "Vhat de hell ist _dat_?"

"You tell me."

"Et lohks like a mutahnt dick."

Kiku flushed all the way down to his toes. "D-do not say such vulgar things! This is edible and a male's... Well, _that_ isn't!"

"De schtuff dat comes out is..."

"G-Gilbert!"

Gilbert hissed his familiar laughter from between his teeth. "Kesese, fine. It's a pihckle."

"Thank you..."

Kiku returned to his card shuffling and a silence rose between them. Gilbert tiled his head back to drained the rest of his coffee, ignoring the gross thickness at the bottom where the fine grains had settled. He could feel the awkwardness hovering over the two of them. The heaviness of the air on their shoulders, the way it seemed to make his skin crawl and his mind go ninety-miles an hour trying to think of an interesting topic to bring up... There was no mistaking it. It made him frustrated and embarrassed all at the same time. The latter because, well, when _wasn't_ it flustering to sit there not knowing what to talk about, avoiding eye contact the whole time? It could kill a person. But mostly he was angry at himself. Mad that even though Kiku was the only person he would call a friend in America (Ludwig didn't count. He was just... a nanny), they _still_ weren't able to sit side by side facing each other without chuckling nervously and stumbling their way through conversation.

Well, at least Kiku wasn't giving up on him. Things could be worse.

"I—" Gilbert drew his attention up and back at the speaker of the soft voice. "—am sorry, Gilbert. I do not think there are two Alfreds. However, you are fresh eyes. Perhaps there _is_something we of the town are missing, simply because we have been here for far too long and see what we think we should see. Perhaps..." Kiku paused, fingers brushing over the cards smooth surfaces. "You should continue looking into things?"

Kiku smiled, a small little tug in the corner of his mouth. Gilbert wasn't sure, but it almost seemed sly. Then, before the albino could reply to the vague suggestion, Kiku quickly flipped up a flashcard from the stack. "Now, what is this?"

* * *

Gilbert's idea of church turned out to be exceedingly unalike to the real thing.

There were no occult-like sacrifices. No sitting around talking about how God told them to eat a certain dinner. No reading the bible like a novel or pouring glasses of wine, claiming it to be the blood of Jesus. No practising stepping on water. Nothing that he believed—or thought—happened behind the tightly closed doors of the Christian church.

Instead it was mildly normal.

There were women in casual dresses with small children chatting together about some show, a group of men in suits standing around laughing quietly at a joke the smallest made. There were teenagers and elders, all moving about joining different groups to either talk with them or simply say hi. It was a giant social gathering. Everyone knew everyone.

Especially Alfred. From the moment they walked through the doors he was waving and greeting people cheerfully, starting and ending conversations politely. Many watched Gilbert move after the blond. Even if he wasn't albino, the German had a feeling he would have gotten stared at just as much because he obviously didn't belong. Unlike the other men he wasn't wearing a dark suit. He had on a dress shirt a size too big (Thanks to Ludwig), untucked from a pair of slacks. A sloppy attempt at fitting in. His strides were too full of attitude, his bangs too long in his eyes, his stares too challenging... He just wasn't their typical Christian.

Alfred had given his outfit a once over not long ago, but said nothing. Instead he smiled when he saw his new 'buddy' and invited him into the passenger seat of his little second-hand car eagerly, asking how Gilbert's morning had been.

Gilbert didn't tell him it was a hectic one. He didn't explain how Ludwig nearly went into cardiac arrest when he saw his 'brother' awake before eleven _willingly, _then nearly choked to death on his coffee when Gilbert told him he was going to church. He kept that information to himself and instead grinned casually. "It vas ohkay."

The atmosphere inside the church was so friggin' _friendly_. It was like an overdose of Feliciano, only less oblivious less Italian. Gilbert shuffled behind Alfred, making sure to keep close enough so he didn't lose sight of the man. It would be easy to become lost in the sea of Christians. So many of them wore the same black outfit with the white dress shirt. Finding Alfred would be like trying to find Waldo in a swarm of peppermint clothing.

"Here we are." Alfred motioned to a row of empty benches. The same kind you would find in a stereotypical movie. Wooden and cushioned with the back rest curved for your spine to bend comfortably. "Why not put your stuff in your spot?"

"Sure." Not that anything in the little leather briefcase was _his_. Alfred had brought a second set of books for his German friend, somehow knowing the man would either have none of his own or have forgotten them back in his homeland. As expected, when questioned over the missing books Gilbert's answer had been the latter. "Vhen does it schtart?"

Alfred glanced to the clock on the wall. "A few minutes. I guess stopping for McDonalds on the way over took a little longer than I thought." He smiled, looking mildly embarrassed. "I was hoping to introduce you to most of the congregation, but... I guess we'll have to wait until the break."

They had breaks? Christ (Was he allowed to say that in church?)! How long were these damn meetings supposed to last? The whole day?

Gilbert might have asked Alfred that exact question (Worded differently, of course), had they not been interrupted. People were coming forth to speak to Alfred, smiling and shaking his hand in greeting. Most of them glanced at Gilbert curiously, and Alfred was quick to leap into name swapping.

By the time they got through two married couples a grey haired man appeared at the front of the church, ghosting across the platform in dark robes. He carried power, that much was certain. Almost as soon as the people saw him they began moving to their seats, their voices quieting to whispers. He was a figure of chosen authority.

He smiled kindly to someone off in the left of the church, then he motioned with his hands for everyone who was sitting to stand, asking them in a soft yet clear voice to ready for prayer.

For the next two hours Gilbert sung hymns and worship songs. He listened to the pastor at the front read passages from the bible and explain them in praise. Most of all he watched Alfred. His gaze drifted right at every shift the blond made, every 'amen' he mumbled, every laugh he blasted obnoxiously when a joke was made. Gilbert knew one hundred percent now this was _not_ the Alfred from the video store. Whatever Kiku said, whatever _anyone _said, they were wrong. A hit on the head as a kid couldn't give you split personalities. Not this controlled at least. The way church-Alfred carried himself, it was so different. So... proud.

Video-Alfred was nothing like that. He was more ashamed.

As the closing prayer came to an end with a loud, collective 'amen', everyone started moving. It reminded Gilbert of a puddle, so serene and lifeless, suddenly being poked to create odd ripples of rapid frequency throughout it. A room of quiet, enraptured people coming to life. It was almost poetic.

Alfred talked at Gilbert the whole way back to the car, stopping, it seemed, every two feet to speak with more people. Because the service was over their conversations grew longer, and what might have been a three minute journey ended up taking nearly twenty minutes before Alfred wormed his way through the church doors, Gilbert close behind.

"Sorry about that," Alfred spoke quietly as they wandered their way over to his car. He had his head down while he preoccupied his hands with fumbling for his keys, but Gilbert was pretty sure it was all an attempt to hide the red splotches staining his face in a blush. "It gets pretty crazy when a new guy joins."

"Et's ohkay. Et is de same in Germahny." Well, probably. If all churches were similar then why wouldn't it be?

Alfred must have though the same because he nodded and accepted the reply without mulling over it too hard. "So, what now?" he asked.

"Vhat?"

"What should we do now? My job at the S.A. doesn't start until twelve. We could go grab something to eat, maybe?"

"Euh..." There was more? Gilbert couldn't help letting his face wrinkle up while he searched for an excuse not to stay around longer. "I cahn noht do anymohre. I have vork soon und..." Lies. Gilbert's shift was at one.

"Oh, really? Aw, drat. That's really sucky. Your boss sure likes to work you hard, doesn't he?"

Good he fell for it. Without doubting anything either. Gullible little man, wasn't he? "Mohre dan yoh cahn imagine. Und et's worse dat I'm his broder."

Alfred suddenly grinned brighter than a ninety watt light blub, face completely alight with new found knowledge. "Wow! You're Ludwig's brother? That's insanely awesome! I didn't know he had any relatives!"

"Yeah, vell, dere's a reason fohr dat..."

They came to the sides of the car. Gilbert popped open the passenger door and slipped inside the little run down vehicle. Alfred mimicked the action with the driver's side, sliding himself into his seat while at the same time pushing in his key and turning the ignition. They tossed the briefcases with their books into the backseat like they weren't important at all. Gilbert thought Alfred might set his down gently and stroke it or something equally as creepy, but he was mildly impressed the man did no such thing. He barely looked when he dropped it behind them.

"Brothers are always cool to have," Alfred kept talking, oblivious to the way Gilbert's eyes widened a fraction in exasperation. The car groaned a little as the transmission shifted out of neutral into first and they began following two other cars out of the church parking lot onto the main road. "They're nice company, and kind of like a living memory book. You have to love them and take care of them. Even if they have flaws..." His voice started to lower and soften. A tenderness laced with scorn was creeping into the tone. "Even if they're not right in the head and do things, act like things, they really, really shouldn't, y'know?"

Gilbert stared at Alfred in a way one man might stare at someone who's completely off their rocker. Fear was beginning to creep into his stomach, twisting and turning like a wriggling monster. Not for himself, but something else. "Yoh sound like yoh know a ding or two about broders."

It was almost miniscule the muscle twitch by the corner of the blond's eye. Gilbert couldn't ignore seeing it _or_ Alfred's grip tighten on the steering wheel, and how his gaze moved right, as if to stare at the albino, then forced itself still and back on the road ahead. What was that a sign of? Anxiety? Apprehension? "Do I? Hah, that's strange."

"Vhy?"

"Because—" Alfred's false smile made his face resembled a plastic doll. "—I don't have a brother."

* * *

There was no Ludwig in sight when Alfred dropped Gilbert off at home, promises of another Sunday church linked through overly cheerful tones. The truck was still in the driveway, so it wasn't like the blond was out anywhere. Kicking off his shoes at the entrance Gilbert cocked his head, searching for any sounds that might lead him to the younger German. "Ludwig?" he called down the hallway towards the laundry room.

Nothing. Gilbert darted up the stairs, socked feet stomping loudly in his eagerness to find his 'brother'. "Ludwig! Wo bist du?"

"Gilberto?"

Gilbert poked his head into Ludwig's room and blinked in surprise. "Vhat ahre _yoh_ doing hier?"

Sitting on Ludwig's blue comforter was a familiar man with auburn hair and a wayward curl wearing_ the _most ridiculous outfit in the world. A pair of overalls that were so large on him the clasps did nothing to hold them up, a mustard coloured plaid button up shirt beneath that, and bright orange gloves big enough he might wear them as a hat. The figure hiding inside the clothes beamed, his sweet face a perfect picture of innocent glee.

Feliciano jumped up to his feet when he saw Gilbert. His arms stretched out for a hug, but he only managed to trip on the legs of the overalls and, with a ear shattering shriek, fell face first into the ground.

Gilbert didn't know whether to laugh or help the Italian up. He settled for both. "Vhat in de hell ahre yoh vearing? Yoh lohk like a little kehd playing dress up."

"Ve..." Feliciano allowed himself to be lifted back on his feet, hands clenching Gilbert's shoulders as the albino aided him. He didn't seem at all discouraged by the other man's hissing laughter. "Ludwig's going to teach me about flowers, since he's so good at making pretty ones!"

"Und does ahre his clodes?"

"Yeah!"

The expression on the auburn hair's face was priceless. So much joy in one little body. He was literally quivering with it. How could someone find gardening_ that_ enjoyable?

"I dohn't have two ohf everding, but ve should be able to... Gilbert?" Ludwig stopped dead in the doorway of his bedroom, and when Gilbert turned to face him his face burned like never before.

Because Ludwig was wearing a pair of overalls too. Only his were white and_ frilly,_ his strap clasps were _flowers,_ and he had on _no shirt_.

Gilbert howled with hysteria.

"_Sh-shut up!"_ Ludwig drew himself up to full height, attempting to regain the dignity he'd lost in the split second Gilbert saw his outfit. _"I only have one good set of clothes and Feliciano wanted to wear them!"_

"Did yoh hear dat?" Gilbert turned to the third figure standing in the room who was listening to the Germans converse in their native tongue with a confused expression. "Luddy said he gave yoh his good clodes because he lofs yoh."

Ludwig spluttered and turned, if possible, redder. "D-Dat is noht vhat I—!"

"You love me, Ludwig? Ve! That makes me so happy!" Feliciano was a ball of squealing energy launching himself into the blond's arms (Which automatically opened to receive the bundle of excitement from years of training). "I love Ludwig too!"

Gilbert cackled madly off to the side as Ludwig's face quickly made a tomato look pale in comparison. "Ngh," was the mumbled grunt the blond forced out from his suddenly tight throat. He patted Feliciano's shoulder awkwardly, looking anywhere but at either of the two people in the room. "Ohkay, let goh now. Ve have to... vork."

"_Gardening isn't work, Luddy,"_ Gilbert teased after Feliciano skipped out downstairs to the back door, singing at the top of his lungs, 'Ludwig is nice and lovely but hairy and scary'. _"It's an __**art**__."_

"_Shut up."_

"_Temper, temper. Always so testy when it comes to Feli."_

"_Gilbert, I'm warning you."_

"_You know what I heard about Italians? They make the best loooovers."_

It was one of the most satisfying moments in Ludwig's life to watch Gilbert tumble down the stairs crying and laughing out with each bump. Who needed punching bags to release their anger when you could just find an idiot to push around?

Gilbert sat upright rubbing his head at the base of the staircase and glared up at Ludwig. Anger or frustration was impossible to fake thanks to his broad grin though. _"You're a dick, y'know that?"_

"_Runs in the family, I suppose."_

Gilbert laughed. Pushing himself onto his feet he patted his backside and legs to rid himself of any dust that might cling to him (Although why he did it when Ludwig cleaned the house top to bottom practically every day, he wasn't sure). _"If Feliciano's here, does that mean Kiku is running the store himself?"_

"_Kiku is more than capable of such a task,"_ Ludwig replied. He came down the stairs, following Gilbert into the kitchen. Through the now open back door they could both see Feliciano bent on his knees by the flower bed. He was smiling, and by the motion of his lips still singing that strange, strange song._ "Why do you ask?"_

"_Well... I thought maybe I could go and help him out. Y'know, lend him some of my awesomeness for the day."_

Ludwig's eyebrows arched high. _"First you wake up early, then you go to __**church**__ of all things, and now you're offering to work? Has some strange phenomenon occurred I didn't know about where reality inverted?"_

"_Thanks, Luddy. Now I know who to go to for some support when I need it,"_ Gilbert grumbled sarcastically.

"_What's with the change in work habits? Trying to start over?"_

"_Pfft, I'm not lame like you, kid. This is way better than that."_ Gilbert grinned._ "I'm on a mission."_

Ludwig frowned, brow creased. He took a moment to ponder, 'What could that mean?' A mission? That didn't have anything to do with his uncle, did it? No, that made no sense... Unless... Oh, Lord. _"Please, please tell me this has nothing to do with Alfred Jones."_

Gilbert's hesitation to reply was clear enough.

"_You honestly believe there are two Alfreds?"_

"_Did Kiku say something to you?"_

Ludwig shook his head. _"Don't answer my question with another question. It doesn't matter how I know."_ Which was a direct translation to, 'Yes, Kiku did tell me, but I'm too loyal to rat him out'. _"Having two Mr. Jones would be impossible. You need to leave the poor man alone. First you insulted him, then you pushed him to bring you to his church—"_

"_He asked __**me**__, actually,"_ Gilbert grumbled. _"And it was boring as hell."_

"_Still, don't do it again, okay? You're imposing."_

"_Can I at least go to work instead of staying here watching you two pansies play in the flowers like some really bad porno foreplay?"_

Ludwig's eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms over his chest, and he might have actually been intimidating had his outfit been different. _"What's your ulterior motive?"_

Gilbert put a hand to his chest, a pained expression crossing his face. _"It isn't possible for me to be nice without scorn? I'm hurt."_

"_Gilbert..."_

"_Fine, you got me."_ Video-Alfred always comes on Sunday, of course. Kiku must have left out that little bit of information when passing Gilbert's theories through the grapevine. _"I get free coffee out of Honda,"_ he replied instead of voicing his true reasons. _"But... I'll need a ride."_

"_I can't, Feliciano is—"_

"_I know, buddy, I know." _Gilbert clapped Ludwig on the shoulder and leaned in. Close enough his cheek was almost pressed against the younger man's muscular bicep. _"So you have a choice. Either lend me the truck for a bit, or you can leave your little food fetish lover all alone in your house and garden where he could do anything—"_ He moved their faces closer. _"—**anything,** without supervision."_

Give him a cocky grin, maybe throw out a hissed laugh. There you go, Gilbert. Worked like a charm. Ludwig was crumbling. It was a pull between his house's beauty or his truck. Feliciano or Gilbert. Nowhere to live or nothing to drive.

"_... The keys are in my work coat, left pocket,"_ Ludwig grumbled, utterly defeated. Then his protectiveness flared, and his tone took that familiar sharp edge. _"And if you so much as scratch her paint, I will personally hand you over to the Russians myself."_

"_No promises there."_


	8. Chapter Eight

**A/N: This is posted a little late, but we had a storm here and my (Seb) internet was kicking in and out, sorry guys! This is the usual note - Thank you for all the wonderful, wonderful reviews and favs and alerts and all those amazing things that keep DD and I happy! :D **

**Like it was said in the last chapter, we are going on a two week hiatus due to Spring Break and travelling, so the next chapter should be up _Sunday April 3rd_, or maaaybe a little earlier, it all depends. So thank you for reading, and we'll see you guys then!**

**- Seb and DD**

* * *

Cool water trickled down the very British features of Arthur Kirkland. Droplets slid over a square jaw and between thick brows, brushing against his pale eyelashes when they parted open.

It was the start of his first day on the squad he was transferred to. He was glad he didn't have a family, since he remembered it was always hard to start again in a new town. He still wasn't good at rewriting life, even though he thought he'd gotten used to it. Imagine what it would be like with children or a wife, always needing to ask their opinions, to balance out the shared enjoyments. Nothing was ever simple when there was more than him.

Cupping his hands under the streaming water, Arthur splashed his face and patted himself dry, all the while staring at his reflection in the mirror. He only found piercing green eyes, jagged and crooked from the cracks in the surface, staring back. No more, no less.

Finally, he changed into his uniform. He checked himself out for a second, somewhat impressed and somewhat horrified at the fact he was the spitting image of his father. He always thought that his old man was the greatest inspiration and greatest deterrent from his family. It was constantly, "Make us proud, Arthur", "Your grandfather was a policeman, and your great-grandfather was a policeman. You of course will be the seventh generation of law enforcer in our family", and, "I am the _law_, if you are against the law, you are against _me_."

Or the good old, "No son of mine will be a fairy boy!"

Yes. Arthur indeed had daddy issues.

Through the living room and across to the end of the kitchen, Arthur glanced at the clock while he paused in his steps. He still had about seven minutes before his leaving time... And he was already going early. Showing up an hour ahead of the scheduled arrival might be seen as rather strange to Americans... What more could he possibly do to waste his time though?

There was a shuffle outside, the sound floating in through the open window by the Brit's head. Then a quiet bang followed, as if someone had knocked against his fence. Arthur's eyebrows creased together, creating a wrinkle effect above his nose. It was his second week in his new house and already he was going to have neighbour problems?

Arthur slid open the door leading out to the backyard, mind set on telling off whatever hooligan was out there bothering him, until he heard a small voice come from the other side of his back fence. "Ve, is this okay Ludwig?"

Curiously, Arthur walked over and peered through a small hole that had been punched out through one of the fence panels.

The one who had spoke, a tanned little male with an oddly bright grin, was talking to a rather large blond man who was holding a hose and watering his shrubbery. Neither of them noticed Arthur's peeping eye. They were completely oblivious to the fact they were being watched. Too drawn into the flower bed splayed out beneath them to care.

Arthur scoffed under his breath as the blond man glanced over at his auburn haired friend, unaware of the way the soil beneath the flower's bodies was starting to pool. "He needs to pay more attention to the plants, or else he'll drown them."

"Ja, I ahm sure dat is fihne, Feli," the blond said, voice a little too airy to call him down-to-Earth. Arthur watched still as the large shirtless man moved closer and closer to the small brunette. The stream of water haphazardly swerved and wiggled along the garden line and then, as the blond leaned down to the other man who was bent over and wiggling above the ground, the water splashed, and mud and dirt landed all over the brunette.

"Ve! Ludwig! You got me all wet!" the smaller cried, eyes opening momentarily to grow large. "Oh, no, I got Ludwig's clothes wet!"

"Noh, it vas noht..." The blond trailed off and sighed irritably, like he felt bad but exasperated all at once. "Ah, never mihnd. I'm sohrry, Feli. Here," he said, dropping the hose—which only managed getting the smaller man even more wet and earning another "Ve~!" out of him. "Cohme inside, ve vill geht yoh changed again, und dry."

Arthur watched in confusion as both of them blushed, and, taking each other's hands, turned to go inside the house nearly identical to the Brit's own.

Then it dawned on him.

Gay! They were _gay!_

He recoiled, almost in disgust. As he did he could feel his cheeks going red and feel something stir beneath his pants.

"No! No, you are _not_ gay, Arthur, you are confused from spending your experimentation years in an all boy's catholic school!" He sprung up from his crouch and walked through the back door into the kitchen. He snatched up his coat and briefcase, shrugging the former on before turning to the clock on the stove to check the time.

"Bollocks..." It figured he'd be late.

* * *

Gilbert had, of course, driven Ludwig's beautiful truck as reckless as possible.

He swerved to terrify some old couples, he blasted music and spilled some coffee. For good measures he hit the curb when turning a corner and kept every window down—sunroof and all—to let everyone hear the German lyrics to the loud, bass throbbing songs that shook the ground with each beat.

And when he arrived at the good old air-conditioned movie store, he parallel parked without bothering to straighten out.

Ludwig was really better off leaving Feliciano at home alone.

"Hallo, Kiku!" Gilbert cheered, bursting through the front doors with enough force to make the glass bounce off the wall behind it. His arms splayed out into the air, thrown open as if to embrace the world in a perfect 'ta-da' pose. "I haf cohme to help yoh!"

Kiku smiled when he saw him but didn't say anything otherwise. In front of the counter was a very sober looking Alfred, who proceeded to shoot Gilbert a weird look.

"Thank you for coming," Kiku said, handing the customer his movie with a typical head tilt and gentle curve of the lips. "It's good to see you again, Alfred."

"You too." The movie renting Alfred nodded with a quirked smile and turned towards Gilbert. The door had slid past Gilbert, just finally closing with a soft jingle from the bells above. Alfred reached out, grabbed it, and jerked it open again. As the albino expected, this 'Alfred' was completely different. No bright grin, no constant chatter, no bouncing around or acting like a hyper child. This 'Alfred' looked down and hunched over like an unpredictable animal, eyes dark and watchful for any sudden movement.

"Church ahgain nehxt veek, Ahlfred?" Gilbert asked as the blond pushed past.

Stunned, Alfred looked back at Gilbert, frowning at him as if to say, 'What are you talking about?'. Then realization dawned and his expression twisted into, 'Ooh, I see', straight to wide-eyed, fearful, '_Fuck_'.

Expecting the same biting 'nein' from the man as before, Gilbert stood and shot him his best cocky smirk. Instead, his reply from Alfred was to see the Christian rip the movie door open and bolt, his steps far too fast and unsteady to be normal.

"Gilbert..?" Kiku was stepping out from the counter to come up behind his co-worker. He spoke more, probably asking something like 'why are you here?', but Gilbert was oblivious to it. His eyes were trained on the American walking away from the store. Something hadn't been right. That moment of terror... it hadn't been for no reason.

And Gilbert was dying to know what that reason could possible be.

Alfred jumped into a light jog down the road. For a second, Gilbert was waiting for him to duck into an alley, or jump into the car that Gilbert had just been driven home in barely an hour ago. But no, the man eased back into a walk, as if suddenly struck by fatigue. Then his steps came to a halt all together.

Because the second-hand car Gilbert had been expecting to be sitting somewhere nearby was speeding around the corner of the parking lot, tires squealing and engine roaring. It screeched across the lot, bypassing every vehicle in the area, until it came to a complete stop right along side Alfred.

"Oi!" Gilbert yelled, although nobody could hear through the glass of the store door. He rushed outside, each stride propelling him forwards as much as possible. A man lighting a smoke raised his head to give the European a funny look, but Gilbert ignored him completely. "Hey! Hey, schtop!"

He saw Alfred turn, his hair gently moving with the motion. There was a moment where red met with a violet gaze and Gilbert could read the dread. He could see just how much this man—this unnamed blond wearing the identity of Alfred Jones_—needed _help. He had seen that look before. That pathetic burning for aid. He had seen it in a reflection of a mirror in the face of a bruised pale skinned, white-haired stranger.

Gilbert almost reached his hand out. He wanted to yell, "Turn around! Come here!"

... But it was too late.

An arm shot out and pulled Alfred in to the car, too fast for anyone to notice anything unless they were looking. In the blink of an eye the car had its door closed and was driving off at an impossible speed.

Leaving Gilbert standing all by himself, with no idea about what just happened.

He kept watching the road for any trace of non-Alfred or the car again for a bit until he gave up and walked back into the store where Kiku was behind the counter, looking confused and a bit anxious.

Might as well attempt to explain it to his friend, he supposed. After all, he _did_ kind of take off without saying anything. "I dink dat Ahlfred vas just... just... um..." Gilbert twisted his hand in the air, as if searching for a word. "Just..."

"Just what?"

Gilbert pondered for the translation momentarily. He knew it was there. He'd used it not that long ago with Feliciano. "An automobile puhlled up ahlong beside him, und pulled him in. Vhat's dat called?"

Kiku's eyes widened ever so slightly. "Kidnapped?" At Gilbert's finger snap and loud, 'Dat's it! _Keednahped!_' the little Japanese man's face folded with worry. "A-are you sure?"

"Ja! Vhat doh yoh dink I am? Schupid?"

"No, I... Gilbert, we should phone the police."

"Ah, ah." Gilbert grabbed Kiku's wrist when the darker haired man turned to reach for the store telephone. "It vas his automobile."

"Alfred was kidnapped by his own car?"Kiku echoed, to which Gilbert nodded to confirm the fact. "But... That makes no sense..."

Gilbert shrugged. Kiku remained quiet a second longer, then he slowly relaxed, the corner of his eyes losing their tenseness and smoothing out. "Then, perhaps we shall wait until tomorrow. He has shift at the Salvation Army towards noon."

"Vhy doh yoh know dat?"

"They have set schedules, and... I used to work there, remember?"

"Oh, richtig."

Gilbert stepped back, releasing his grip on Kiku as he did so, and he regarded his friend suspiciously. "Hold ohn, yoh said 've schould vait'. Does dat—"

"I'm sorry, Gilbert, but I cannot help you." Kiku's smile was rueful, his lips pressed slightly tighter together than usual. "I'm not very welcome at the Salvation Army much anymore."

"Vhat?" Sweet little Kiku doing something wrong? Gilbert was sure there was more to the man than he let on, but still, what could he have possibly done to make Christians working at a thrift store hate him enough to glare and ask him to leave when he stepped through their doors? Wasn't there some type of rule against stuff like that? "Vhy vould yoh noht..."

The door behind them jingled softly, informing the workers of an arrival. A trio of young teenagers stumbled inside, giggling amongst themselves about some inside joke from school. Each of them cast a shy glance over to Kiku and Gilbert, the smallest of them gaping openly at the German's obvious albinism. Neither movie employee paid much attention to their immature stares and noises. Instead they turned back to each other, Gilbert ready to continue their conversation.

Kiku stepped away, motioning with his hand in the direction of the teens. "I should wait by the register for them..."

"Ja." Gilbert frustration must have been easy to read because Kiku bowed his head apologetically before gliding over to the other end of the counter. So that was that. The only person he thought might help him was unable to because of _something_ that happened. And the man impersonating bubbly Alfred had been snatched up by, supposedly, his own car. His single lead gone.

Unless...

When Kiku heard the door swing open vigorously he turned half expecting another customer to come wandering in instead of Gilbert leaving. But to his surprise—and slight disappointment—it was Ludwig's 'brother's retreating back he saw through the closing store door heading to the horribly parked Dodge truck.

And to be honest, the image made him a little worried.

There were no words in the English language, or any language for that matter, strong enough to describe Alfred's rage.

* * *

Despite years of horrible treatment, nights of being curled underneath his blanket praying to a God he didn't believe in for a miracle to come save him, hours of withering in pain because he simply said the wrong word, Mathew had never been more afraid in his life than the second he saw the periwinkle blue Toyota come roaring towards him and the near identical face of his brother seething behind the layered glass of the windshield.

Alfred had said nothing more than a single syllable, "You!" when he yanked Mathew into the cab of the car. "You! You!" It was amazing how terrifying a common word could be.

The entire ride to their house, Alfred said nothing. He just held onto Mathew's wrist, grip uncomfortably tight, while he twisted and turned through the town. Sometimes he'd look over at Mathew and there would be a moment where their eyes would meet and everything seemed normal. Then Alfred shook his head and let out a strangled laugh. "You, you, you," he hissed, like it was unbelievable Mathew was out and about in daylight. "You, you..."

There was a couple walking down the street when they pulled up to the house. Alfred tugged on Mathew and the blond obediently bent forwards, successfully hiding himself behind the dashboard as they passed by. He felt the bump of the curb as Alfred steered them up into the driveway. He heard the groan when the breaks were applied and the loud silence that filled the cabin after the engine had been cut. He felt the fingers around his wrist tighten and the pull that brought him straightening upwards.

Mathew staggered behind as he was hauled from the right side of the car through the front door as quickly as possible. He'd had a moment of freedom when Alfred crawled out of the driver's seat, leaving Mathew to sit and wait until his door was open for a moment and that familiar grip returned. That moment where Mathew could have run. He could have thrown open his own door and escape to the streets, screaming for help. That moment where Alfred wouldn't be fast enough to grab him and drag him back into that hell of a home.

But he didn't. There was no reason why he stayed stationary. Every will, every cell, they told him to escape. Yet he remained sitting pleasantly until his brother grabbed him and yanked him along the path to their house.

"You, why would you—" Alfred slammed the front door shut and spun on Mathew. His eyes were ablaze with enough animosity to force Mathew a few steps back, trying to create distance between them. "Why would you do that to me, Matt? Why wold you... Out there..."

Then suddenly Alfred's anger was gone. He grasped his head and inhaled sharply, as if in pain, and his gaze cleared. His fingers threaded through his blond locks as he tilted his head up to Mathew, his little brother, and he nearly smiled. "Do you know how worried I was, Mattie? I came home and saw you gone an-and I was so scared... So scared you'd left me."

"I—I'm sorry," Mathew stuttered, restraining himself from stepping back when Alfred moved forwards. "I j-just..."

Alfred reached to the stand by the doorway, placing his keys down on its surface. "What would you do without me, Matt? What if something had happened to you?" His hand slide to the base of the lamp, stroking its smooth porcelain. "What if someone realized what you are and took you away? You'd be all alone."

His fingers traced up the neck of the lamp, caressing it. "All alone, Mattie... All alone..."

Mathew saw it coming. He saw it the second Alfred touched the desk. He raised his arms to try and brace himself but the lamp came shattering across his head, sending him reeling sideways into the wall with a yell. His skull throbbed with pain, and he wondered in his haze of agony if something hadn't been broken. "Al—"

The lamp made contact again in the same spot. Mathew smashed against the wall once more. He heard the lamp finally break from the second blow. He heard the hissed insult from between Alfred's teeth. He felt a stream of heat trickle down over his forehead and cheek. He was bleeding. A bleeding head wound. Wasn't that the most dangerous type? "Al, n-no... I-I didn't mean to—"

Through partly-opened eyes Mathew saw Alfred's grip on the broken lamp tighten. "You think I need you, Matt? You think I need something like _you_ in my house? Huh? Do you?"

His arm rose. It looked black from the light above. The sharp ends of the lamp glistening like a dagger already coated in blood. Mathew wanted to swat it away. He wanted to stand, to grab Alfred and throw him against the wall to show him he wasn't weak. He wasn't some pathetic, helpless little _thing_ that could be pushed around any longer.

However a nap sounded much more pleasant. Mathew closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, feeling the slippery blood rubbing into his hair. What did it matter if Alfred stabbed him? Death was nothing more than a long sleep, right? And he really wanted to doze off right now... He was so, so tired...

Something in the distance chimed. It was like church bells, only softer. Quite pretty, actually. It sounded familiar too, but Mathew couldn't quite pin-point where he'd heard it before. He thought he felt someone grabbing underneath his arms and pulling him for a while. Then he was tumbling down, down, down. Bump, bump, he went. Finally the world stilled and darkness was all around him. He was comfortable, more so than he'd ever been before. He closed his eyes... or were they already shut..? and lulled himself into a sleep where no Alfred laughed at him, no strange albino grabbed him and called him gay and no pain, no pain...

* * *

Up above, Alfred closed the basement door quietly. The bell rang throughout the house, mixed with a knocking pattern that was really beginning to aggravate him. "Just a second!" he called, raising his voice a couple octaves to sound friendly and hide the fact he'd just thrown his brother with the gushing head down stairs, along with the broken lamp to hide any evidence.

He rushed into the kitchen and rinsed his hands with hot water. Drying them off with a paper towel he tossed it into the garbage bin before hurrying back out into the front hallway. "Sorry, sorry," he said as he twisted the knob and swung open the door. "I was in the washroom and..."

The air stilled with silence as the figures stared at each other. Then Alfred grinned, big and bright, and laughed.

"Gilbert!"


	9. Chapter Nine

**A/N: Hey, everyone! Break's over, so back to the weekly updates! Sorry this isn't super long and is a little late in posting. It originally was almost double the size, but I edited out a section for another chapter. It just didn't fit 100% here. Like always, thank you again for all the reviews, favs and alerts! DD and I are always overjoyed to see them! **

**Here's chapter nine after a long two week wait!**

**- Seb**

* * *

There were a lot of words to describe Gilbert. Cocky, obnoxious, self-centred... The typical douchebag only other douchebags could possibly hang around without trying to claw their hair out in rage after a set amount of time. He was brash and irresponsible. Childish and somewhat snarky. He could be nice to get what he wanted, and he could make you feel faint just by a simple hair flick and casual grin. He was flirty and greedy. Forwards, yet cautious. Rude and far too curious.

However, he was _not_ stupid.

Almost instantly he knew something was wrong. Not even that, he could just _sense_ there was an abnormal occurrence going on around him. The reason for such emotions was unclear. Maybe it was how Alfred poised himself in the doorway, partly leaning against it in what might be a casual manner, but far too stiff to be comfortable. Or perhaps it was how the blond's smile seemed too forced. Too wild.

Gilbert didn't know why such dread washed over him all of a sudden. He'd felt nothing but adrenaline the entire way to the house, like an animal hunting its prey, knowing that it was close and practically in his reach. He hadn't experienced any fear or worries. For weeks he'd wondered about the double Alfreds, and now he was facing what he thought would be the answer to everything and he froze up, scared.

"Wow, Gilbert, this is a shock! How did you find out where I lived? I bet it was Jessica, wasn't it? Yeah, I can tell. She's always so eager to gossip, it's really a bad habit of hers..."

It was those seconds before the door opened. Yes, that had to be it. The short moments that lasted hours when he rang the door bell and, while listening to the sound of the pretty chimes, heard something large hit something hard over and over _and over _again.

"So how are you doing? No work today? What'd ya come over for? It can't be because you wanted to visit me. That would be pretty gay, you know." Alfred's laugh was painfully hollow.

What were those noises from before? And why was Alfred talking so fast? Yes, he was constantly making noise, but never at this rate.

Was he nervous?

Was he trying to avoid something?

"Hello? Anybody in there?"

Gilbert looked up and for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of fear in the blue eyes that stared so damn _intensely_ at him. This was not the gaze of an innocent man, he decided. This was the posture of someone who was hiding away a secret. Someone who was trying to find a way to distract the conversation from turning in the wrong direction.

"Do yoh have somevon ohver?" Gilbert's tone was lacking in oblivious curiosity. He didn't feel up to faking anything right now. Not after coming this far. He was going to find out the truth _today_.

Alfred's smile faltered. "What? No. I live alone." A pause. Then a soft, timorous whisper, "Why?"

"I dought I heard someding." Gilbert craned his head upwards, not because he wanted to see what was over Alfred's shoulder, but whether or not the blond would react.

Indeed, Alfred did. He moved with Gilbert's wandering stare and tried to pass the action off as a coincidental shift in his posture, smiling the slightest after he moved. "Nope, just me! I live alone, after all."

"Really?" A gleeful head nod in reply. Gilbert narrowed his eyes. "Cahn I come in den?"

Unsurprisingly, Alfred tensed. "Uh, that's... I—"

"I saw him, Ahlfred. De oder... _yoh._ I saw him at de schtore und I saw yoh pull him into yohr cahr." Gilbert pointed to the exact same blue Toyota sitting in his 'friend's driveway, remembering the way the quieter Alfred's eyes met his the moment before he was shoved roughly into the passenger seat of the vehicle. All that fear, that despair—it was too vivid to forget. "Dat cahr."

Alfred said nothing. Gilbert's gaze never left the man standing before him, keeping him out from all the answers to his unsolved questions. What was there to say? He'd been caught, and here stood the one person who knew. The one person who somehow found a way through the veil of disguise. The one person who, despite never stepping foot inside of the United States before in his entire life, figured out the mystery of the two Alfreds before anyone else even realized they saw a mistakable double.

Alfred took a step back, hand brushing against the door's edge. "You'd better come in."

Inside the house of Alfred was exactly how Gilbert imagined. The decorations were plain, there were little dorky action figures sitting here and there trying to stand out against the pale wallpaper (Seriously, who even used that shit anymore?), and it wasn't all that big. When you worked at a Salvation Army the income wasn't exactly mind blowing, so Gilbert's surprise didn't escalate too much at the sight. From his standpoint at the entrance he could see into a living room in the left archway, a kitchen to the right, and a set of small stairs leading up to what was probably a single bedroom.

Or perhaps two, if Gilbert's hunch played out positive.

However, the albino's predictions fell short when his eyes left the upwards direction of the place to the ground, because he was _not_ expecting to see crimson smeared on the base of a wall.

Little shards of blue scattered themselves on the floor, their sharp edges tinted deep red either from cutting open whatever animal it had been wielded against or simply from laying in the warpath of the blood puddle. Had he looked closer Gilbert would have seen a slight indent in the drywall where a man's head was smashed into the house more times than necessary.

"Vhat... de hell happened hier?" Gilbert turned, face incredulous, and was met with an uncharacteristically serious and quiet Alfred. "Did yoh do dis to him?"

"I had to." Alfred blatantly avoided eye contact and instead stared blankly at the blood, face expressionless. "He was jeopardizing himself. I had to do it."

'Jeopardizing' was not a word in Gilbert's English vocabulary. Nonetheless he understood one thing clear enough. There was definitely another man. And it was that man whose blood had been spilled in this hall.

"You've gotta understand." Alfred stepped closer, watching Gilbert with large, crazed eyes. "He'd be killed out there. They'd know what he is! They'd take him away and leave me and... I'm fixing him, don't worry. It takes a bit, but I'm fixing him."

"Vhat ahre yoh talking ahbout? Vhat ahre yoh fixing?"

"He's... he's..." Alfred stuttered and curled his lips back in an unnaturally revolting expression. His nose wrinkled, his eyes darkened. He was disgusted, and Gilbert didn't understand how someone as cheery as Alfred could bring himself to make such a face let alone harm a person this badly. "He sins, Gilbert. He sins because he desires men. He's—"

"Gay."

Alfred choked on a reply. He rubbed his face in an attempt to rid himself of the rage and humiliation that bubbled inside him from hearing the single word that labelled his brother, but nothing helped. "I've been trying so hard to fix him. He just won't listen. He never tries to repent. It's always me pushing and pushing and him never helping... I don't know what to do."

What was this? Gilbert could hardly believe the conversation he was having. Alfred might have just killed a man over the religious belief that homosexuality was a one way ticket to hell, and now he was blubbering about his problems and stresses to Gilbert as if the German were some kind of therapist. "Ahlfred." Gilbert stepped closer to the blond, noticing the unstable way the American grasped a handful of hair and flinched at some memory or thought. "Vhere is he? Vhere is de oder yoh?"

"I can't tell! You'll hurt him because of what he is. I'm the only one that loves him, I can't let you hurt him!"

"Ahlfred, I von't hurt him. I vant to help."

Alfred kept his fingers dug deep against his scalp, stare flickering to new places every few seconds while a silence lifted between them. He was losing his composer. Fast. And all this stalling wasn't doing anyone any good. That kid, the one with the scared eyes and broken stance, was somewhere in the house bleeding to death and they were just sitting here doing nothing except talking about their fucking feelings. How did you get a nutcase's mind on topic? How did you ask them to do what you wanted without having them blow up or go psycho? He should have listened to Elizabeta when she talked about her job at the hospital. She was always going on about crazy people and how to deal with them.

Gilbert pointed to the blood on the wall, never letting his eyes stray too far from Alfred's face. "Vid dat much blood gone he might _die_. Ahnd yoh'll be all ahlone. I cahn help."

Thankfully 'alone' seemed to do the trick. Alfred's hesitation was clear, but not strong enough to stop him from giving in. He nodded at Gilbert, lowering his hands away from his head, and started towards the staircase. The idea of his brother dying and leaving him all by his lonesome was terrifying. Even Gilbert could see the concept bothered him. More so than the fact an outsider was about to learn of Alfred's worst secret.

But Gilbert wouldn't tell anyone. He wouldn't run around spreading the information throughout town.

He could trust Gilbert. Gilbert was a friend. Maybe the first one Alfred's ever truly had.

Originally, Gilbert thought they would be going up the stairs. From his view at the door he couldn't see the basement entrance that was hidden beneath the edge of the railing, almost too similar to the walls to be noticed. When Alfred bypassed the staircase and touched a tiny handle that hardly protruded a centimetre out and tugged open an old sliding door, Gilbert's stomach dropped instantly.

They were going into a basement.

A creepy, dark basement.

This was the beginning of all horror movies. Where the guy you _know_ is cracked in the head leads the main character down into the depths of his house, promising something that doesn't exist, and strikes from the shadows.

Gilbert almost stepped away from the entrance. Alfred turned though and gave him a look of questioning. In the short seconds he turned away from Gilbert his personality did a full one-eighty, going from losing his sanity to completely normal in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"Noding..." Alfred shrugged his shoulder, shifted, and headed down into the darkness of the basement, making the wooden stairs creak obnoxiously loud with every step.

Gilbert watched as the shadows swallowed the American whole and waited until he ceased to hear Alfred stomping down to the ground floor. "Is dere a light?" he called down.

A muffled reply, "Just hold on a second." Then a click and a dull yellow hue glowed along the curve of the basement stairs.

Gilbert followed them down, weary. They were wide with not much length and they curled a bit towards the end. He could make out Alfred's upper body as a shadow in the light moving around, shuffling a few things and cursing under his breath when something small tinkled to the floor. He wasn't really sure what he thought would be down there. A mutilated video-Alfred with a knife in his chest? Maybe a leg-less corpse? Perhaps he had no tongue.

The blond looked nothing like any of those. Alfred had stepped over his crumpled body without so much as a second glance and was now clearing a spot off an old ping-pong table, humming under his breath. The other Alfred was on his side, arms eerily limp over top each other with his eyes closed and his mouth partially opened. He had blood drenching the side of his face, creating dark trails over his cheek bone and nose. A tiny river was running towards his parted lips, threatening to drip onto his tongue. He looked deathly pale with an unnatural lack of movement. Gilbert wasn't sure he was even breathing.

"Scheiße..." The albino crouched on his knees, ignoring the way the blood on the hard concrete floor began soaking through his slacks. He reached out to place a hand on the video-Alfred's belly, turning him over onto his back before he did so. For a moment Gilbert couldn't feel anything. His palm remained stationary. Immotile on the unresponsive diaphragm. Then his fears dissolved as his hand was push up by a slow, but steady breath. _"He's alive."_

"What?" Alfred materialized behind Gilbert, his shadow casting a cold spell over the European. "Is he okay? You can fix him, right?"

'Not the way you want.' "I have noht looked aht his head yet. Vas dat de ohnly place hurt?"

"I... I think so..." Alfred rubbed through his hair distractedly. The same spot as before. "I mean he hit the wall pretty hard. He's so clumsy..."

Gilbert wanted to gape in shock. Clumsy? _Clumsy_? This was _his_ work and he called the other blond clumsy? Gilbert highly doubted the second Alfred took a blow to the head with God knows what kind of an object, then got most of the damage inflicted by _clumsily_ hitting the wall. Alfred's insanity was growing more obvious with each passing second. The kid was so normal in the real world (Aside from the whole religious fanatic thing, of course). How could he be this messed up and not notice anything?

And how could this other guy stay around? He had tons of chances to escape, didn't he? All those Sunday trips to the movie store, the hours Alfred worked. Why didn't he run for help? Why did he let himself stay?

Gilbert slipped one arm beneath the other blond's shoulders and another under his legs. Without much effort he lifted the unconscious man up off the cold ground and over to the ping-pong table. Warmth was pressing into his left forearm. Sticky warmth. When he pulled back he saw blood coating his white dress shirt. Soaked straight through to stain his skin. Great. He'd have a hell of a time explaining that to Ludwig.

Despite the nagging voice that told him he'd get scolded, Gilbert ignored the urge to waste time by rolling up his sleeves and placed his hands on the blond's face, turning it towards him so he could see the wound on his head. It was a mess of cuts and deep scratches made by some kind of sharp object. Probably whatever shards were laying in the hallway by the blood. Alfred made a noise of queasiness when Gilbert pressed his fingers into a larger cut to check the severity. "Goh get some vater und, uh... Vhat ahre does dings called? Dey clean liquids."

"Uh... paper towel?"

"Noht paper, de oder von."

"Towels, okay, got'cha." Alfred rushed up the stairs, weight practically rocking the staircase as he took it three at a time. He returned not long after with an armful of blue and red towels, along with some white dish clothes and a small Tupperware of cold water. "These are the clean ones. Think it's enough?"

"Ja." Gilbert grabbed one of the dish clothes and dipped it in the water. "Vhat did yoh hit him wid?"

"A lamp." Alfred grinned wickedly, like a child with a better present. "Should'a seen the way he went down. It was _awesome._"

Awesome sounded so wrong coming out in that sentence. It would never mean the same after this. "Yoh're fuckin' nuts, yoh know dat?"

Oh, whoops. Was it good to call crazy people on their insanity? Gilbert stilled, hand poised inches above the other Alfred's head, waiting for some kind of response from the man looming behind him. All he got in response was a pat on the back and loud, boisterous laugh. "Yeah, everyone at work says that! It's okay though, 'cause no hero is normal!"

Hero. Right. Gilbert dabbed at the cuts, trying to clean the blond strands of hair and the scalp beneath them as best he could without getting right in there and causing more pain. A vase couldn't cause infection, could it? But what if it was really old and gross. Worse, what if the kid hit the wall hard enough for a concussion? What if his brain was having a seizure and totally just ready to blow at any moment and all they're doing is fucking cleaning him? What if he really did _die?_

For the first time in his life, Gilbert wished Roderich and Elizabeta were there to help. They at least knew something about doctor stuff.

By the time Gilbert finished cleaning (Or attempting to clean) the wound and wrapped it in the softest towel, it had been well into a few hours. Alfred was busy hunched over at the head of the table, wiping off the dried blood from his lookalike's face almost lovingly. He hummed as he worked, never mumbling the lyrics or anything. Just humming. It was starting to grate on Gilbert's nerves.

Another question was bothering him though. A question about the mystery man's name. It was time to give him an identity aside from 'the other Alfred'. "So, who is he?"

"Huh?" Alfred snapped his head up more from being torn out of his daydreaming state than fear or shock. "Oh, he's... He's my brother."

Brother?

"_Brothers are always cool to have..." _

"_They're nice company, and kind of like a living memory book. You have to love them and take care of them. Even if they have flaws..." _

"_Even if they're not right in the head and do things, act like things, they really, really shouldn't, y'know?" _

In his mind it clicked. The awkwardness Alfred got when Gilbert brought up siblings. The rants he released, talking like he knew everything and yet nothing all at once about brothers, when he claimed to have none. It made sense. He had a brother. He had a brother who was gay—completely against everything Alfred believed in. But Alfred didn't hate him. He was ashamed of him, and kept him under lock and key.

"_He'd be killed out there. They'd know what he is! They'd take him away and leave me and... I'm fixing him, don't worry. It takes a bit, but I'm fixing him."_

"_I can't tell! You'll hurt him because of what he is. I'm the only one that loves him, I can't let you hurt him!"_

Alfred didn't understand that you can't beat the gay out of a person. He was... _training_ his brother. Trying to change him, to 'fix' him into a normal person.

And this brother lived with it? Was he insane too? Did he think this was normal, that this was right?

"Gilbert?"

Gilbert tore his eyes off from the spot in the wall he'd been staring at to Alfred. "Vhat?"

The Christian stared at him, gaze dark enough it felt he was reaching into his soul. "You can't say anything to anyone. If they learn about Mattie, they'll take him away and he'll be alone. He hates being alone. He wouldn't last without me."

Alfred started stroking 'Mattie's cheek, unaware he was doing so. "I trust you, Gilbert. You have to promise me you won't say anything."

"I..."

Alfred curled his hands into fists, now clutching his brother's front desperately. His eyes were dampening. He looked like a child. A scared little boy who was doing all this wrong for a twisted sense of right and justice and feared being left alone. "Promise!"

Gilbert knew it was sick. As he nodded his head silently and looked down at 'Mattie', he could feel the sense of wrong curling inside him like a storm brewing. He'd just signed his own warret for a shitty future. He knew it. His uncle would shoot him on the spot if he knew what was going on. Gilbert tried running away. He tried hiding in America, to shake off all the crimes he'd been apart of. He tried to escape the grasp of hell and succeeded for awhile.

But somehow it always found a way to wriggle its disgusting fingers into his life.


	10. Chapter Ten

A/N: Hi guys! It's DD! Wow, I've never written an author's note before... at least not on this account. . I was kinda going for an aloof and cool persona, a Dave Strider, if you will.

Anyways, thanks so much for the love, it's crazy how long we've actually been writing this for. It took so much preparation, and care, and love. We even have a setting now! Ever heard of Bagdad, USA? I saw it on TopGear and was like, "OMGWTFBBQ YES." If any of you have ever been there, send a message our way! We'd love to hear about what it's actually like! Thanks again!

* * *

Gilbert had patched up the other Alfred's face pretty good for someone who had never taken medical courses. He supposed it was from experience, and so many times watching medical dramas with Elizabeta. She would always scream at the screen what they were doing wrong. He so wished that she was there. She could probably fix up the poor unconscious boy better than he ever could.

He stared down at the broken body. Alfred sat in a corner, twirling a Swiss army knife in his hands, opening each blade and absentmindedly testing the sharpness of them, watching Gilbert tend to his clone. It made Gilbert extremely nervous knowing that a violent, oddly protective psycho was watching him.

The other sleeping man looked peaceful in his state of unconsciousness. Younger, like he was seventeen, or sixteen even. _Young_. Now he had gauze packed tightly around his features, soaked in his blood, and looking like he had been run over by a truck. Gilbert didn't pay attention to the small nicks and scratches around his face from the glass. He had picked out most of the shards with a pair of tweezers, sickening work that made his stomach churn. There was a reason he didn't go to medical school.

Wondering about the state of 'Mattie's lower body—like if he had sustained any internal injuries when Alfred chucked him down the basement steps—Gilbert moved to take off his huge red pull over which was now torn and bloody as well.

"What are you doing?" Alfred snapped when Gilbert grabbed some of the fabric.

"I... lohking toh see if he ist hurt under his sveater."

Alfred stood, poised in case Gilbert made some sort of 'wrong move'. Gilbert, under the watchful eye, slowly lifted the dirty red sweater that had almost become a symbol of the wounded blond's being.

The fabric peeled off slowly, as if it had been melded to his skin. The breath Gilbert sucked in was caught in his throat. It was like he had just opened a bomb to diffuse, and what lay underneath the first layer was so much more complex than anything he had ever been trained to deal with.

It was so wrong. All of it.

The other Alfred was covered in marks. He was skinny enough that Gilbert could see his ribs, down to the fact that they were uneven, some jutting out more than others, most likely from breakage.

Circular burns littered his arms, and it looked like crucifixes were carved around his wrists. He only imagined the poor boy struggling under Alfred, a crazed look in his brother's eyes and the very Swiss army knife he was continuing to play with flashing bright under a dim light.

"Alfred, vill yoh help me sit him uhp?" Gilbert asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the monstrous sight before him.

"Why?" The response was snappy, accusing.

"I vhant toh see his back fohr..." Shit, he couldn't remember the word. Alfred was staring at him, waiting for him say something. Why couldn't it have been Kiku? Even if the Asian suddenly was a psycho brother with a bad case of sadism, Gilbert would at least be able to tell him what he wanted. Unlike _this_ idiot.

"Hurt. I ahm lohking fohr... hurt." Gilbert inwardly slapped himself. How much more of a FOB could he get?

"Ooooh." Alfred walked over to him and gripped his brother's arm like a vise, wrenching the other Alfred up to a sitting position. Gilbert hissed. There was a nasty bruise on the younger's shoulder, almost blocking out a... Was that a word?

He stretched the skin out a bit. 'Abomination' was what it said. Even if Gilbert still didn't know English perfectly, he knew what that meant. There were more crucifixes carved into the blond's upper back.

"Oh, please, it isn't that bad," Alfred said nonchalantly, and let his twin fall back onto the bed.

"I did noht dink it vould be dere," Gilbert mumbled. Unable to agree or disagree, in fear that a truthful reply would get him murdered by this insane Westerner.

Alfred laughed at that. "Dude, you suck at American! Get some lessons, man." He started to walk to the stairs of the basement.

Gilbert straightened and spun around to stare after the retreating back of his 'friend'. "Vait! Vhere ahre yoh going?" he demanded.

"I'm hungry. And this whole fawning over Mathew thing is boring me." Gilbert couldn't believe it. Just two second ago Alfred was panicking over the possible loss of his brother. Now he was _bored?_ "I have another shift at the Salvation Army anyways. Hey! Gilbo, can you make sure he doesn't go anywhere?" Gilbert opened his mouth to snap something back that probably would have ended with him getting his ass kicked, but he was cut off. "Thanks, you're the best buddy."

Alfred practically ran up and out of the stairs to leave the house, abandoning a furious Gilbert with an unconscious Mathew.

"Prick! Douchebahg! _No one calls me Gilbo! No one! Bastard! Psychotic asshole!" _The German kicked a wall in frustration, raging on in his native tongue. "_I thought I got away from this shit! America, land of the free... Yeah, bullshit!" `_

He spent another few minutes seething and kicking the wall.

"... Hitler?" a small, groggy voice asked, cutting through the garbled curses and insults. "... he killed me, didn't he?" It sounded so quiet and sad, like he always knew it would happen.

Gilbert turned around. Could his rant have woken him?

"Ugh... my head..." Mathew looked even worse in his waking. One of his eyes bloodshot from a broken vessel, lips dry and cracked as he formed words. Mathew looked over at Gilbert with those strange violet eyes of his. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

A pause. "Who are you?"

That was new. Gilbert could not remember the last time in his life someone forgot who he was. He wasn't exactly that forgettable, since he was always so loud and brash. The fact that he was an albino helped too.

"Uh... I ahm noht Hitler," he said, unimpressed even though the blond may have suffered a concussion. "_Dat_ ist noht cool."

Mathew stared at him for a second. Gilbert watched as the pained look he had faded and morphed into realization.

"You." One word, and it struck a chord. Never had one word stung so much, was so accusing, and so filled with hurt.

"Oh God, oh God! Why—how—? Why am I missing my shirt? Oh God you saw, you saw!" Mathew was panicking, and breathing faster. Tears started to run down his face, and Gilbert had no idea what to do. How the fuck did he even end up in this situation?

"Voah! Madew, et's ohkay." Gilbert gestured with his arms, and swiftly moved to the American's side and grabbed the hands that were tearing into blond hair.

Mathew froze. "... and you know my name. How do you know all this? Why are you here?" He was still panicking, and still crying.

"Madew," Gilbert started imploringly. "How doh I say dis... Me und yohr bruder... ve ahre like _dis_."

Gilbert paused and held his hand up to show Mathew his first and second fingers crossed, to prove exactly how tight they were.

Then they sat for a moment, Gilbert still motioning the level of tightness he and Alfred had, and Mathew staring at him, not sure what to make out of it all, until he let out a choking laugh.

"That was stupid." He said after laughing a few more times and wiping the panic of his face.

"Soh, ahre yoh okay?" Gilbert finally asked.

"Ugh, no. Did you get the plate of the truck that hit me?" Mathew's attempt to inject humour into a really awkward situation failed instantly. He could see it the moment Gilbert blinked and his brow creased.

"Et vasn't a truck. Et vas yohr bruder."

"... Never mind. It's an expression. I knew it was Alfred."

"Ah."

"Yeah..."

"Ahre all dose... dose mahrks from him?" Gilbert asked, gesturing to Mathew's skin. The crosses, the burns... the wounds that never healed and left disgusting scars littering the pale flesh.

Mathew hesitated. "Not all of them."

"Ahlfred ist gone, by de vay."

"He'll want you to be here when he comes back too," Mathew said. "You might as well hang out here, I can show you where he keeps the food, and... I guess we can watch a movie, or something."

It was strange, to say the least, that Mathew was so nonchalant about the whole thing. His head wasn't bleeding anymore, and although he must have been in some kind of pain he simply poked at the bandage a bit before wincing away and urging himself to stand. What about those ribs? What about the abuse? What about all the trauma the poor kid must have gone through?

"Vhat abouht de hoshpital?" Gilbert was rewarded with a simple look of exhaustion, like he'd asked the stupidest question in the world. Of course Mathew wouldn't want to go to a place where doctors needed answers for such injuries. Alfred would be on both their cases instantly, and Gilbert didn't feel like having his uncle relocate him to yet another country to start a new life over _again_.

But inside he was torn. Let all this go for the sake of silence, or drag Mathew (Which wouldn't be too hard) to somewhere he could get treated. What if one of those ribs were puncturing a lung? What if he was bleeding internally somewhere? What if, what if, what if...

"Did he... clean up?" Mathew's voice broke the German's train of thought.

"Uh..." Did he mean the blood stain? "Noh."

Mathew snorted, reaching over to grab his hoodie. He paused, as if thinking, then decided to leave the article of clothing where it lay and instead turn towards the stairs. "I'll go find some rags and—"

"Vait, I'll doh et." Gilbert snatched up the towels from the ping pong table and started towards the stairs, stopping only to glance back at Mathew curiously. "Ahre yoh feeling... gut?"

He received a blank look in response. "I just had my brother bash my head into a wall with a lamp. Then he threw me down here. I'm aching in pain, and now you're tangled up in this mess and neither of us are going to get out of it anytime soon. What do you think?"

Fair enough, Gilbert supposed. He cracked something of a grin, and noticed a muscle in Mathew's temple twitched at it. "So nohw ve goh und vhat? Vatch mohvies?"

"If you like. You're the second in command, you tell me."

"Vell... I dohn't really like mohvies."

Cue the incredulous stare. "Really? Why do you work in a movie store then?"

"Lohng story."

"Ah."

They made their way up the stairs together, Gilbert in front, Mathew trailing with a slight limp behind. As they reached the top and Gilbert waited for his blond companion to finish climbing out of the basement, he slid the door shut.

From a little ways down the hall, partly turned towards the stairs, Mathew asked in a quiet voice, "Whats your name, anyways?"

Gilbert smirked. "Ich bin Gilbert," he said, mocking the string of bad German he heard not so very long ago.

Mathew looked torn between insulted and amused. "I can't believe you remember that." He laughed and started up the stairs. "I suppose, it's nice to meet you, Gilbert."

"Ja..." Gilbert hovered around the base of the staircase until the feet, which still wore running shoes, disappeared up into the second level of the house. Then the albino slipped his hand into his jean pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He had seven missed calls, all from Ludwig. He could easily just press 'send' and dial to his brother, to explain everything that was going on. Ludwig wouldn't think he was lying, would he? Better yet, the police. Gilbert could save Mathew's life. He could be a hero in the eyes of some of these Americans. He could be renown and-

But that was exactly what his grandfather didn't want. To hide himself Gilbert would need to not leave a name, run from the house, and let Mathew handle the questions. Which, of course, he'd simply lie to and neither he nor Alfred would be in any trouble. Gilbert, on the other hand, would be hunted down by the raging Christian half of the brothers, and destroyed in a way similar Mathew's strength had been.

There was nothing he could do. Both routes led to nothing. He had to protect himself. From Alfred _and_ the world. Beside... Mathew was used to this treatment. Maybe he could last a little longer, until Gilbert formed a plan...

A pale digit hovered over the red power button of the cell, then after a moment pressed down and held. The phone's light dimmed and the familiar LG flower faded into nothing, sealing Gilbert's decision.

* * *

A/N: End chapter!

Oh Jegus, this was so much fun to write. None of you realize how much fun this was for me to write. The "like this" line has been waiting to rear its ugly (yet magnificent) head for literally MONTHS. So much, its an inside joke for us now.

I hope you enjoyed it as much as we did.

~DD


	11. Chapter Eleven

**A/N: Hey, guys! Another Sunday update for you all ;D Fifty reviews in 10 chapters, that's so awesome~ DD and I are ecstatic with how much positive feedback we're getting. It was actually lucky we got to post 10 on Sunday, because like an hour after it was put up went wonky and didn't let anyone log in... Anywho, hope you enjoy this next one, and see you again on the 24th!**

**- Seb**

* * *

Gilbert was appalled at the fact the Salvation Army didn't close until this late at night. His—er, _Ludwig's—_truck remained in the driveway of Alfred's (and Mathew's, in a sense. But really, nobody else would agree with that) house. Unmoving, cold. Probably grumpy from having been put on a slant hill for the last hundred hours.

But it wasn't Gilbert's fault at all. Oh no, if Alfred wasn't so batshit insane, maybe the German would have been on his way home a long, long time ago. Maybe he wouldn't be sitting on one end of a couch watching _Con Air_ of all things while Mathew lounged on the other edge, a complete cushion separating them from any physical contact.

The kid was boring as hell. He barely talked. He didn't move much. He was constantly checking the clock, like time somehow leapt ahead an hour in the three minute span he waited before glancing at his watch over and over again. And worst of all he didn't bother offering any refreshments after the movie fest started. He always waited during the small breaks between the insert of a VHS (VHS? Who uses that shit anymore anyways?) to refill the glasses and plates, so Gilbert had to actually _pace_ himself.

How fucked up was that?

But there was one good thing about Mathew. If Gilbert didn't pay enough attention, he almost thought he was in the house alone. The kid was easy to forget. In fact more than once the German had to do a subtle (or so he thought) double-take because his brain lapsed over the fact he wasn't by himself.

Yes, Gilbert realized that living with a psycho bastard your entire life, while being hidden from the world and getting burned and scarred and all that other shit, could screw up a person's social skills a bit. But, c'mon! Whatever happened to manners? Conversation was supposed to be the main activity when it came to hanging out.

Alright, no, they weren't actually hanging out.

And no, they weren't friends.

And yes, it was only because of Alfred's lies and Gilbert's huge nose that forced this situation to happen _unwillingly_.

But those aren't any good excuse for being rude!

Nicholas Cage was moving towards his wife and daughter, a tattered bunny in his hand. His child was scared, big blue eyes wide and wondering. Gilbert rolled his own eyes when the music started to play and Cage's accented words stuttered out. This was such a _bad_ movie. Not even that. It was the _worst_. And Gilbert had seen _Run, Lola, Run_ for Christ sakes. He needed out. Alfred surely wouldn't go after him if he really left, would he?

Gilbert remembered the scars littering Mathew's body. The engraved words and burns. Alfred would never be able to do all that to him, Gilbert wasn't a push over little brother who didn't know how to stand up for himself. But the American wasn't weak, and it wasn't like Gilbert could just thrown himself into a fight without the law (and undoubtedly his uncle) getting dragged into it. Like he said before, being relocated again wasn't exactly his cup of tea.

But damn it this was frustrating.

As Cage and his daughter, Casey, embraced in an overly cheesy way, the sound of a key sliding into a lock caught Gilbert's ear and the albino cocked his head at the noise. The front door swung open, creaking slightly, and a bright, almost entirely non-lethal, "Hey, guys, I'm home!" came floating through the hall and living room entrance.

Gilbert glanced sideways at Mathew. The younger remained motionless. However his eyes were unnaturally hard and unmoving, staring blankly at a spot somewhere around the television. Almost like he was waiting for something...

"Oh, hey, Gilbo." Alfred sauntered over to the duo, plopping down on the cushion between them. The air was considerably lighter now. Thinner. As if the tension were sucked out by an invisible pump. And yet they were all still on edge. Why? "Did y'all eat anything? Or do I have to cook dinner myself?"

Mathew turned his head and finally spoke for the first time in God knows how long. "We snacked. Did you eat?"

"Oh yeah, don't worry 'bout it. I went down to Micky D's. What were you watching?"

"Con Air."

"The one with Nicholas Cage?"

"Yeah."

"Aw, man, and I missed that awesome ending? Ugh. Darn!"

Gilbert shifted uncomfortably from the oddly casual conversation going on beside him. This family was so fucked up it was almost incomprehensible. "Erm... Cahn I goh?"

"Hm?" Alfred turned towards the German, blinking and looking totally innocent. "Oh, yeah, sure, dude. I bet Ludwig's super worried. Isn't that his truck you drove here with?"

"Ja." Oh, right._ Ludwig_. Gilbert hadn't thought this through very much, considering how his 'brother's truck was still sitting in the driveway, probably weeping over the fact she had been away from its owner more than twenty minutes. "Ja, he is vehry anahl about dat."

Alfred giggled maliciously.

Mathew shifted awkwardly in his spot.

Oh yes, Gilbert wanted out. Now.

He stood and Alfred followed. Together they walked to the front door, Gilbert slipping on his shoes without bothering to properly tuck in his heel when they reached their destination.

"So, same plans next Sunday?" Alfred was grinning and bouncing on the spot, rocking his weight forwards and backwards, barely able to contain himself with whatever joy he had raging inside him. "Mattie needs a babysitter, y'know, and you're not half bad at it."

A babysitter. From one country with a crazy Russian to another with a cracked American. Gilbert wasn't sure what was worse. Being hunted down to be murdered, or forced to watch over a broken teenager because the kid doesn't exist in the world? "Lohk, Ahlfred, I—"

"Did he do something wrong?"

Gilbert's pulse skipped a beat at the nearly bi-polar flip in Alfred's tone. From cheery to deadly. How could someone possibly live with this..? "Vhat?"

"Did Mathew do something... gay?"

"Vhat?" Gilbert wanted to curse himself for repeating the single word again like a broken record. It would only make Alfred more angry. More suspicious. "Noh! Noh, he didn't. I juhst dohn't dink I cahn geht ehvry Sunday ohff." At the blond's narrowed stare, the German added in quickly to throw the scent off, "Ef he _did _doh someding faggy like dat, I'd tehll yoh soh yoh'd... fix him... Dohn't vorry."

And Alfred smiled again, back to normal. If normal was a word anyone might use to describe this mess of a human. "Well, don't sweat it if you can't. But ask anyways, alright? And if Ludwig wonders just tell him it's... a bro's secret."

A fist was pushed out towards Gilbert. He hesitated, almost confused with what to do with the knuckles facing him. Then he realized it was to seal a deal. A silent one. One of far too much darkness for his liking.

Why did everything always turn out this way?

Gilbert bumped Alfred's fist, proving his loyalty. "Ja, a sehcret." And he turned with a little wave over his shoulder in farewell.

* * *

"_**... not here right now because your timing is totally unawesome, Ludwig. Nice try though!**"_ Gilbert's hissing laughter filled his ears and Ludwig, in a small act of badly contained rage, growled and snapped his cell phone shut. Leave it to the idiot to not only record his voice message in German, but single Ludwig out in it too. Such a pain...

Nearly eight hours ago Gilbert left the house on a trip to 'help out' at the store. Eight hours and no word of Ludwig's truck. He didn't really think Gilbert would call with hourly updates about his baby, but this was insane. It was a fifty thousand dollar vehicle in a small town. Who knew what kind of filth could be accumulating on it? Considering Gilbert's irresponsibility it might be turned upside-down in a ditch somewhere, or worse... Stolen!

The thought of his _precious _in the hands of some drunk, disgusting drug abuser made Ludwig's blood run cold. His fingers flew over the phone he still clutched in his hand. The only connection to his reason to live. As he listened to the re-dial beep through Gilbert's cell number combination, his heart plummeted at the much too familiar voice mail recording that hit him.

"_Dammit,"_ Ludwig cursed. He raised his arm, temper flared more than enough to throw the phone and smash it into oblivion, but then he hesitated for a split second and placed it down on the coffee table instead. No use ruining a perfectly good household object because of his 'brother's stupid actions.

Through the opening into the living room from the kitchen, Feliciano stepped out tugging on the hem of one of Ludwig's shirts. It reached about mid-thigh and the sleeves, which were short on Ludwig himself, almost covered his elbows completely. Since Ludwig's pants were all either too loose around the waist or too long in the pant legs, they had to (unfortunately) resort to grabbing one of Gilbert's pair of pyjama bottoms with the drawstrings to let Feliciano wear. It was shocking how only eight centimetres could make such a huge difference in clothes size. "Did he pick up?" Feliciano asked.

"Noh." Ludwig smelt the Italian before he saw him. The familiar scent of fresh bread was much quicker than the man it clung to, and Ludwig automatically braced for the impact of a tiny body landing beside him on the couch long before it actually came. He leered at Feliciano once the momentum from the brunette's weight calmed down. He was cuddled up against Ludwig like a little dog, making strange noises under his breath. "Vhy do yoh do dat?"

"Do what?"

"De sounds."

Large honey coloured eyes lifted up from somewhere in his lap, making any traces of anger Ludwig might have felt from Gilbert ignoring his calls and putting his truck in jeopardy dissolve instantly. "Ve? What sounds? What are you talking about, Ludwig?"

"I..." Ludwig sighed and looked left, avoiding the tiny brunette curled by his side so the blush on his face didn't deepen in colour. "Nehver mind."

"Okay! Hey, remember when I told you about that recipe from my grandpa I found in the attic? Well I tried it out last night and Lovino said it was—"

It was practically a given that silence could not exist with Feliciano around. Ludwig didn't mind too much. After all, why would he bother allowing the little Italian to spend time with him if that was the case? It was a different kind of constant noise than Gilbert though. Unlike the albino's brash nature and crude language, Feliciano spoke kindly. In a strange way it soothed Ludwig's stressed nerves. Sometimes to the point he droned the world out, simply listening to the accented words coming from his... His...

Well, he wasn't sure what Feliciano was. Too precious to be a friend yet too uncomfortable to be something more.

Or maybe it was just Ludwig who was awkward.

A small feathery touch brought the blond's attention to the man using him as a human pillow. Feliciano was still yabbering away, completely unaware of the fact his story was falling on deaf ears. He held Ludwig's right hand in both his own, a single thumb tracing the deep lines in the German's worn palm as he talked. When he smiled his eyes closed, their corners crinkling, and his perfect white teeth flashed long enough to be complimented by anyone looking. He kept giggling between his words, choking on laughter at one point and pausing in his strokes of Ludwig's hand to catch his breath and stare happily up into softening blue eyes. "Isn't it funny how he acts?"

"Ja, vehry." Ludwig diverted his stare again when Feliciano grinned and noticed how the fingers of the smaller adult's left hand started to thread into his own. "Did yoh put yohr—"

Blaring cut the German's words off from somewhere to the left. One of the cordless house phone's display lit bright orange while a darker grey font flashed 'Unknown Caller' above a phone number with the area code. That looked like... Yes, it was an unmistakeable cell number!

Ludwig dove for the phone, ignoring Feliciano's squeal of protest as he was nearly launched off the couch. _"Where the hell are you, you stupid truck stealing—"_

"_**Nice to see how much you've missed me.**__"_ Oh yes, it was definitely Gilbert. That same cackle. The same shit-eating-grin sounding voice. God how it irritated him to no end.

"Gilbe... Yoh moron!" Ludwig roared, feeling Feliciano flinch away rather than see. "Vhere ahre yoh? Doh yoh know vhat time et is?"

"_**Relax, Luddy. I'm, like, on the road right now heading home. Nothing's going to happen to me.**_"

"Et's noht _yoh _I'm vorried abouht. Es my truck in von piece?"

"_**Your concerns touch me deep, young one. I can feel the love from here."**_

"Gilbert—"

"_**Fine! Geez, you're rather bitchy. Your truck is totally okay. I didn't maim it too much while I went on my little escapade around this shithole you call a town.**_"

"Good." They were only words, but they made the worries on Ludwig's back disappear almost instantly. His beauty was alright. She wasn't kidnapped or destroyed by means of a horrible crash. She was safe.

At least, he hoped.

Sinking back into the couch, Ludwig closed his eyes to rub at the space between them. All this stress... he was too young. He'd get grey hairs if he wasn't careful. All this because of an idiotic stunt pulled by Gilbert... Life was so much simpler without the albino poking his nose into everything. "Vhy aren't yoh home yeht?" Ludwig asked, returning to the topic that was less important to him, but probably necessary to find a good excuse to yell at Gilbert again. "Dohn't tehll me yoh vent toh get yohrself into mohre trouble wid dat Ahlfred idea."

"_**Wow, right on first try! Nice job, kiddo.**_"

"Vhat did I tehll yoh about dat? Yoh cahn't just—"

"_**Yeah, yeah, I know. It's creepy and none of my business bullshit. I remember. You don't get it though, this time I ha-oh, **__**shit. Uh.**__"_ A pause. Like something had just dawned on him and he was scared to say it aloud._"__**Quick question. Would you be really mad if I told you I... spilt something on my shirt?**__"_

"Scpilt..? Vhat did yoh schpill?"

"_**... Blood..?**__"_

Wait, was that said right?

"Yoh're bleeding?" Ludwig's muscles tensed with apprehension. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Feliciano turn his head, gaze more than a little curious of the conversation. "Vhat de hell did yoh get yohrself into dis time?"

"_**I'm feeling pretty awesome, thanks for asking. In a huge amount of pain at the moment with blood gushing out from a huge ass gash on my back, but nothing I can't handle. Don't worry yourself too much. I don't want you to, y'know, **__**care**__** or anything,**__" _Gilbert replied sarcastically.

"Gil—"

"_**Look,**_" Gilbert was starting to replace his sarcasm with exasperation and Ludwig almost wanted to smack himself for making _Gilbert_ sigh like an old man. "_**It's a really, really long story and I kinda don't want to have to explain it right now. Plus, you're not gonna believe me anyways, so I really don't see the point.**_"

"Did yoh hurt yohrself, or vas it somevon else?"

" _**'dunno if you were listening, but about two sentences ago I said it was a really, really long story. What I meant was, it's a really, really fucking ass long story.**_"

There was a pause on both lines where both Europeans waited for some kind of an answer from each other. In the end, neither could come up with a good one and Gilbert just made a noise in the back of his throat. Probably of annoyance that he would, in the end, be the one to back down and break the quiet. "_**If I told you it was my fault would you be cool about forgetting this ever happened?**_"

"Vas anyvon else involved?"

"_**Nope. Just me, a bottle of beer, and a way too dark alley.**_"

"Did de police come?"

"_**Pfft, give me a little credit. I don't bother with those guys.**_"

"Den mayhbe."

"_**You're the best not real little brother ever, Ludwig.**_"

A sigh. One that made him sound far too old for his age. "I know."


	12. Chapter Twelve

Gilbert awoke the next day, groggy as per usual. The room he slept in was white, with matching bed sheets that tangled around his half naked body. Groggily, he sat up, and looked at his clock.

"...I can sleep for a bit longer." He said, then rolled back over and went back to sleep.

* * *

Mathew woke up the next day, tired as per usual, yet feeling a bit giddy from the night before. Gilbert was nice, or at least nicer than Alfred. He imagined that Gilbert was just roped into his life, by Alfred. Then, a thought occurred. What if he was stuck then? What if being with Mathew made him uncomfortable, and he actually hated Mathew? Yes, that was exactly the case; Gilbert hated Mathew, and was just waiting for a time to humiliate him. More punishment, he supposed, for liking men.

* * *

Ludwig had been awake for an hour at least. Already he was washed, shaven, his hair slicked back, and he smelt of aftershave. He sat in the living room, where Feliciano had been sitting the night before. His legs were crossed, and he had a cup of coffee, black, and the newspaper in each of his hands. He wondered what could possibly be taking Gilbert so long.

* * *

Kiku woke up the time he usually woke up, and started his day the way he usually started it. He cleansed himself with a bath first, then dressed in clothes usually found in America, but taking a moment to look through his wardrobe. His fingers dancing over his Yukata wistfully, wishing that he could wear it soon once again.

After his preparation for the beginning of the day, he checked his calendar, to see if he worked that day.

Which he didn't.

The coffee he was sipping suddenly tasted so much better. Quickly, he whipped of the button up shirt he was wearing, tore off his pants with the skill of a stripper, and dove into his closet.

He emerged, victorious, his grey and green yukata comfortably draped around his body, with a sweat band pattern white with the red rising sun on it clinging to his forehead with a sketch book and pencil tucked under his arm.

Today. Today was the day that he would be able to draw, and sketch, and finally finish his doujin.

He set up the coffee table in his living room, which was surprisingly similar to Ludwig's living room, and grabbed his coffee.

Then, he got to work. With skill he learned in his high school years, he began crafting the beginning of his comic's sixty seventh chapter.

Rika was finally confessing her love to Sousuke, who was actually in love with Tojirou, the rogue tennis captain at the rival school. But Rika herself was lying, since she was in a secret lesbian relationship with Ami, but no one could know, so her "love" for Sousuke was just a rouse!

Hours passed, and Kiku happily worked away. The story kept getting better and better, in his opinion. Rika and Ami were going strong, and even though they were meant for each other since the beginning, they had been through rough times, and not even Kiku knew if they were going to stay together.

This. This is what Kiku lived for. One day, he was finally going to sell it and he would have legions of fans, with merchandise, and he would be a star in Akihabara, and finally, he would be able to return to the homeland he never knew.

More time flowed by, flowed like cherry blossoms in the wind. As time passed, his eyes drooped and drooped, and fatigue started taking over his mind. Finally, after hours of straight work, he stretched out the legs that were folded underneath him, and stood to go rinse his coffee mug and grab some food.

As he took a bite into his piece of toast he had just finished making, he heard the door bell ring.

"That's odd," he said to himself. "I wasn't expecting anyone."

He was nervous as he approached the door, and as he opened it, he only let his head show through the crack in the door way.

"Kiku! Hey!" It was Gilbert, standing outside his house in that god-awful uniform.

"Oh, hello Gilbert." Kiku said, opening his door a bit more.

"Yoh vere noht at vohrk, soh I cahme toh see yoh." He spoke, and Kiku wondered when he became so good at English.

"It's my day off," Kiku explained to Gilbert. He supposed that Gilbert got his address from Ludwig.

Gilbert stepped inside, squeezing past Kiku quickly. Alarmed, Kiku, made a noise of displeasure, but didn't actually say anything.

"Oh, yohr house looks like Ludvig's house," he said in wonder.

"Yes," Kiku replied. "A lot of houses in this area were built the same way."

"Vhat ist dis?" he asked, reaching for the freshly sketched and inked papers on the coffee table. Kiku panicked. With the speed of his ninja ancestors, he grabbed the papers out of Gilbert's hand.

"Do not touch," he said quickly.

Gilbert looked at him, uncomfortably for a second. "... I vas juhst vondering."

Kiku pondered for a moment, until deciding that Gilbert was trustworthy enough to know about his secret project that he had been working on for the past year or so.

"This is my comic that I've been working on. It's my dream to complete it, so I wanted a good start before I tried to sell it. I call it 'Breaking hearts in Big heads'," he explained, avoiding eye contact, and a light blush forming over his cheeks.

Gilbert laughed his hissing laugh for a moment, before looking to Kiku again. "Dat ist a schtupid title," he said. Then he took a seat on Kiku's couch. "Vhat is et ahbout?"

Kiku was surprised that Gilbert was taking an actual interest in his manga. He would've never pegged the man as a lover of storytelling.

"Well, it's a lesbian couple and a gay couple who don't want attention, so they pretend to be straight with each other to stop attracting attention," he told him. For a moment, Kiku thought he saw Gilbert grimace when he said "gay".

"Hm." Gilbert grunted thoughtfully. "Does anyvon else know ahbout et?" he asked.

"Only Alfred Jones knows, the Pastor's son." Kiku didn't know it could be possible, but Gilbert went even paler once he had mentioned the name.

Gilbert took a shaky swallow, his adam's applebobbing up and down. "... Is dat vhy yoh dohn't vohrk at the army plahce anymore?"

"Yes. Alfred found out that I am in support of gay rights, so he got me fired," Kiku explained, voice softening ever the slightest bit. Suddenly, Gilbert looked very nervous, and stood up, his eyes darting towards the door again and again, like a trapped animal.

"... I have toh leave now, I vill see yoh later Kiku," he said, before darting out the door.

Kiku stood in the center of the living room where they had been talking moments ago. What the hell was that about?

* * *

AN: End chapter!

Holy cow, I apologize for such a shitty chapter. I'll be honest, I really didn't want to write this, but I got that shit done!

Ugh, this was actually just filler. Well, hopefully next week's chapter will make the plot chug along~.

Thanks for bearing with me this chapter; the next one will be so much better.

Remember to leave comments, we love hearing from you guys! ;)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N: Wow I think by far this is the shortest chapter. But it needs to be so the story's not all out of order! Urgh! Two short, and not exactly the best ones, in a row for you guys... We're definitely going to make it up to you next week, because what happens next... well, no spoilers or anything, but let's just say the plot gets a bit of a kick ;D**

**Like usual, thank you so, so much for the reviews and everything guys! You're the best. Seriously. DD and I bring up how amazing you all are so many times in our conversations. We have no idea how to thank you properly except... y'know, writing... So, next week, DD and I will have a plan to give you guys something special. Let it be some kind of contest or request taker, I dunno, but we'll brainstorm more for it! Promise!**

**- Seb**

* * *

It was just after three in the afternoon when Ludwig heard the door to his store crash open. Immediately his hackles rose, and he spun on his heel to snarl at whatever idiot had decided to try and break the entrance of the movie gallery, only for his words to fall short on his tongue.

Because the figure standing in the open doorway did _not_ have the look of a man who could deal with any shit right now.

"Gilbert?"

"_Did you know?_" Gilbert stalked through the small opening that played as an entrance for the counter, face twisted with rage. He was wearing that god awful uniform which looked terrible on him (and Ludwig finds that ironic, because Gilbert was always bragging that _everything_ looked good on him), and his fingers were curled tight enough into his fist he might have cut his palm if he had any nails. "_Did you fucking know?_"

"Did I know _vhat_?"

Gilbert's words began to slur and his vowels sharpened in his fury, making his German sound harsher in the ears of a non-speaker. "_About what Alfred did to Kiku!"_

"_Keep your voice down, there's customers._"

"_Dammit, Ludwig! Did you know and not do anything about it?_"

Ludwig shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. The mother and her son were still by the children's section, bent down close to the lower shelves and quietly talking amongst themselves. Neither seemed to notice the angered albino spitting out his foreign words, and even if they did they didn't care enough to turn around and gape or ask. "_Of course I knew, I... I couldn't do anything though._"

"_Why the hell not?_"

"_What proof did I have?_" Gilbert snarled something that Ludwig was extremely thankful nobody around understood. "_What proof did __**Kiku**__ have? Gilbert, he didn't want to do anything anyways. Even if we had tried, Alfred Jones is—"_

"_Is what? The fucking king of this place? Does he own the town? You act like he's some kind of fucking deity!_"

"_This is a small community, and the congregation is close. If we—_"

"_Don't give me that bullshit!_" Gilbert reached out towards the counter and grasped a small container than held a handful of pencils and pens. It was a simple plastic little thing, light and easy to pick up. But when he threw it at the floor it might as well have been made of lead, for the sound it made when connecting with the carpet below was loud enough it could have been mistaken for a gunshot. "_The man is running around living a false life, pretending he's so high and mighty! So mother fucking __**awesome**__. Everyone looks at him and they think, 'Oh, there's that nice Jones boy, raised by a pastor, he couldn't possibly be completely fucked in the head'. Well, guess what, Luddy? He is! He's fucking insane, and he's hiding the fact he's hurting people from everyone!_"

Ludwig could only stare. "_What..? Hurting people? Gilbert, Kiku doesn't mind. He gets paid better here than he did there anyways. He likes it here._"

"_Kiku? You think this is just about Kiku? This is—"There_ was a moment of quiet. A moment where Gilbert just glared and Ludwig simply watched, somewhat fearful of what might happen next. Then Gilbert ran a hand through his snowy locks, eyes squeezing shut tightly, like he was trying to fight something back within himself. He turned away from his 'brother' so it was only a back of red Ludwig faced. "_Fuck, never mind. I just... I'm blowing steam._"

Steam from what? Ludwig wonders. He remembers the hours Gilbert disappeared for. The blood on his clothes and the way the man didn't quite meet his eye the other night. Ludwig had passed it off without too much thought, because Gilbert told him it was his own fault. Nobody else. But yet, despite saying he was at a bar and drinking, there was no stench of alcohol from the German. No stumbling or giggling or loud comments that Ludwig knew from their first few nights drinking together like true European men, that told him Gilbert was drunk. He knew his pretend sibling was completely sober. And he knew, deep down, that there was far, far more to the undetailed tale he'd been told.

But he trusted Gilbert. As crazy as it seemed. He trusted him to take his truck, and he trusted him to keep out of trouble. Because even if he was a bumbling idiot, Gilbert knew better than anyone that sticking his nose into the wrong place could get him killed or relocated. Again.

"_Look,_" Ludwig tried throwing in a soothing tone to his voice. It was extremely hard to do though, since he was not a man of comfort. "_Whatever you have going on, you can't just come in here during work hours and throw a tantrum about it. Understand?_"

Gilbert was still turned away, hands on his hips in a stance that wasn't at all arrogant or cocky. Instead he looked strained and defeated. Like all the energy was somehow sucked out of him. It was unnerving to see such a proud person appear this way. "Ja, _whatever._"

The woman and her son were approaching the counter timidly. The woman's eyes darted back and forth between the workers, curious, but not quite enough that she cared to ask. As Ludwig shifted towards her, mumbling an apology and taking her movies to scan them, Gilbert was left to his own thinking.

Alfred was protected in this town. As cliche and unbelievable as it was, the man was truly given a cover. His entire life he'd been seen as some kind of disgusting saint. The son of a pastor, a hard working Christian, always cheerful and polite, never with any faults... Who would even think something bad against him?

Gilbert knew it wasn't his place to do anything about this. He couldn't take the matter to the police and let it sort itself out. He couldn't ask _Mathew_ to speak up against his brother (because the blond was already meek enough around Gilbert, let alone anyone else), and he couldn't very well drag Ludwig or Kiku into anything, because that would only cause them problems, and in the long run most likely Gilbert's uncle. There was nothing he could do. And really, why should he do anything? What would he gain from locking Alfred's crazy ass up in jail where it belonged? A new life and home in another nation, probably.

He almost thought that he should give up. He should listen to Ludwig and just mind his own business and leave Alfred alone.

But then he thought about Mathew, and the scars and the blood.

And he realized there was no way he'd be able to back out of this. He had to deal with Alfred Jones. He had to do _something_. What went on in that house needed to end. Regardless of how.

Hours later, a little after nine o'clock, as Ludwig was locking up the store Gilbert made a quick call using the database in the computer system. The other line ringed once, twice... then three times. Until finally it was answered by a far too cheerful, "_Hello!_"

"Ahlfred, hey. Dohn't vorry about yohr... _problem._ My Sunday's ahre all cleared. Ja. Ja, I'll see yoh den, _buddy._"


	14. Chapter Fourteen

The week had rolled by, slowly, like a steamroller set on _thorough_. Gilbert had been getting restless, so restless that he even went out to see the local night life, which was dead, mostly, and was really only a couple of drunken men watching football in a tiny bar. Not even Gilbert could get excited and rowdy off of that. His thoughts were all rotating around one subject. Mathew and Alfred.

He once thought that when he figured out the secret behind the other Alfred, his conscience would be free, and he could move on with life, save up some money, move out of this shit hole of a town, and get into a city where he could meet a nice girl who he could eventually take back to Germany with him. No more, though. Instead, he was forced to babysit a psychotic man's gay brother.

It was tearing him apart, his mental anguish. No other thought occupied his mind, and it started taking over his functions. He had started to lose weight, and he started showering less, only when Ludwig yelled that he smelled like horse shit at him would he cleanse himself. Everything was starting to seem futile.

But that's what Gilbert was good at, never stopping, no matter what. He wouldn't let it get him down, and he would go straight up to Mathew and tell the kid to lighten up. He would get his revenge on Alfred for hurting too many people, and he would become a hero.

So that was where Gilbert found himself on that Sunday morning, on the couch with Mathew, watching _Con Air _for the second time. Gilbert didn't see why it was so great about the stupid movie, but when they finally reached the end and Nic Cage handed his daughter that beaten up rabbit, he heard a snuffle beside him.

Gilbert looked to the side and saw that Mathew, who was jammed in the corner of the couch as far away from Gilbert as possible, was crying. Gilbert was shocked, and let out a hissing chuckle. Imagine, Mathew the ice queen crying at such a sappy movie.

"Shut up," the blond choked out leering through his tears.

"Ahre yoh... _crying?_ At _dat?_"

"Shut up."

"Vhy ahre yoh crying?" Gilbert asked, incredibly amused.

"Just shut up, it's beautiful." Mathew's voice was notched noticeably higher from the strain of his sobs, and he wiped at his eyes.

Mathew then proceeded to turn away from Gilbert, still wiping his eyes. Gilbert looked at him, and quietly thought of ways he could possibly cheer up the boy.

He reached around Mathew's small frame and grabbed the wrists that were rubbing furiously at Mathew's eyes. He pulled him backwards; landing Mathew's head on Gilberts lap. Mathew instinctively froze, and Gilbert lowered himself over Mathew, running his hands across Mathew's arms and sides a bit. The action was supposed to be soothing. Or at least, he hoped so. Wasn't this what women did to each other when they were trying to calm the other down?

He hovered over Mathew's face, white hair dangling inches above, and he started leaning in closer, causing Mathew to shut his eyes and tense up under his touch, trembling.

"Juhst keeding!" chimed Gilbert light heartedly before releasing Mathew and leaned back to his sitting position to laugh at his awesome joke. God he was a riot. Screwing with a gay guy's head might be funner than he thought.

He was taking a moment to revel in his sheer awesomeness when he suddenly felt a slap across his face. He looked up to where Mathew had scrambled to across the couch, still trembling and red in the face, still holding his hand where it ended up after the slap. Gilbert wondered if he was red from embarrassment, or anger.

"Vhat vas dat fohr?" the albino asked incredulously, clutching his now stinging cheek.

"Fuck you," Mathew snarled.

"Vhat's de big deal? I dought yoh vere geh!"

"Fuck you!" Mathew repeated, lived, and tears in his eyes. "Don't you ever touch me like that again! You don't just go around touching people, especially not people like me! Fuck you, Gilbert! Fuck you, fuck Alfred, and fuck my life!" he leap to his feet, twisting his face away from any stares, and stalked out of the living room.

"... ow." Gilbert sat, stunned, and kinda freaked out. Then,amazingly, he started thinking maybe... _he_ had done wrong. What was originally kind of good intentions, and a bit of selfishness, ended up with a pissed Mathew. He couldn't believe that the little bastard hit him like that! And it actually hurt! He couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, Mathew was terrified for his life. And maybe...

"What did I do in a past life to deserve this?" He could hear Mathew wail from the kitchen across the hall.

Gilbert remembered what Mathew first said when he woke up last week in the basement. _"...he really did it, didn't he?"_

Mathew thought that Alfred had killed him. Mathew thought that he would be dead if this continued. No, both Mathew and Gilbert knew that what Alfred was doing would end in Mathew's death.

Gilbert thought that Alfred knew it too.

At that moment he knew he had to do something to get this poor boy out of this situation, no matter what. If it endangered Alfred, so be it, the bastard had it coming.

Gilbert walked to the kitchen where Mathew was still sobbing.

"Madew?" he softly called out, but he was only answered with choked cries and a muffled curse, probably nothing too kind.

"Madew, I'll help yoh get ehven vid yohr bruder, if yoh vant," Gilbert tried again. He could hear Mathew go quiet, as if briefly holding his breath. "... Please schtop crying."

Mathew's face lifted from his hands. His cheeks were wet, strands of gold sticking to them awkwardly, and the skin around his eyes looked a little puffy from all the previous rubbing. His expression was beginning to change, although Gilbert couldn't tell to what. After a moment the American let out a cracked smile.

"You mean you'll help me get revenge?"

Revenge. It sounded strange coming out of such a broken man, and yet... yet it was familiar. Gilbert was momentarily reminded of Alfred with the shining eyes and twisted grin. He shuddered, but replied quietly nonetheless. "Ja."

"Then... Then we can kill the bastard!" Mathew jumped to his feet and began moving to the sink, then back to the table. Seven paces each way, he began repeating the short track, hands waving wildly with his words. "We can give him what he's been doing to me all these years. We can use his little toys, the pastor's... We—we can burn him if we want!" And he was laughing. A laugh that was much too high and piercing to be sane.

Gilbert only watched, eyes growing a little bit wider with every idea Mathew sprouted. _Kill _Alfred? He'd been thinking something more low key like beating him up and threatening all the abuse to stop in exchange for Gilbert to never say a word in public. Or better yet, Alfred go to jail and Mathew be freed. But... murder? Gilbert couldn't help thinking of Ludwig, and what kind of situation that would put the man in. What about Gilbert's uncle? What would he say to all of this?

Gilbert was a bad ass, not a killer. He wasn't meant to take someone's life. He supposed things were a little different in Mathew's perspective though.

Still, jumping to killing off his brother that quickly... Violence most definitely ran in the family.

Fuck.

What had he gotten himself into again?

* * *

A/N:  
Oh goodness. Things are heating up! . I hope everything's okay, guys, I added the bit of fluff before the angst so that you will hopefully be tided over for now.

So, contest time! After much thought, we are going to basically have a Seb's pick and a DD's pick for our favourite reviews on this chapter! (**Basically, you need to drown us in compliments to win. ****There's no ego stroking going on here, WHATAREYOUTALKINGABOUT? _**)The respective winners of both contests will get a one shot for any pairing in the Hetalia fandom and any plot. You want smut? We got it! You want fluff? We'll do it! You want angst? We got you covered! **Probably our best genre, to be honest...**

So what will happen is that we will message the person who wins our affection, and you must message us back to request your one shot. If you do not reply in a week, your prize will be given to someone else.

So the comment that gets Seb's pick will get a one shot by Seb, and same with DD.

And anyone who sends in fanart of our fanfic will get a two shot! **You guys have until next Sunday for that. Anything from sketches to coloured pictures are totally awesome.**

Also, to be fair, no comment before this chapter will win. They have to be new and fresh!

Thanks guys! Long authors note is long!

- DD (**and annoying little add-ins from Seb :)**)


	15. Chapter Fifteen

"Vait, vait." Gilbert waved his hands in the air ever so slightly, as if trying to shoo away a crazy idea by physical force. "I dohn't dink _killing_ him vill doh much."

Mathew's pacing took a moment to end. His arms, which had been flailing in the air acting out some gruesome explanation of another way to murder his brother, lowered slowly to his sides until they simply hung lifelessly there. He turned to Gilbert, violet eyes flashing something too fast for the German to catch and understand. "What are you talking about? Of course it will 'do much'. It will end this. It will_ free me._"

"Madew." Gilbert stepped closer, saw the way the blond tensed, and tried to make it seem like he wasn't going to approach the man at all and instead placed his hands on one of the kitchen table's chairs, leaning against it. "Schtop und dink. Dis is _murder_. Yohr bruder vill be ded und ve'll have toh—"

"You said you'd help," Mathew's words were sharp and Gilbert didn't understand why he felt guilty for trying to reason against this clearly unstable person. "You promised. You promised you would help me get revenge against Alfred for everything!"

No, actually, Gilbert _didn't _promise anything. But telling Mathew that and helping start up some dark brainstorm for the man to begin plotting to kill him too wasn't exactly what Gilbert had in mind. "Look, I'm noht saying ve cahn't, juhst... dink dis drough. If ve doh dis, ve haf to leave und run. Ve cahn noht schtay in dis country."

"That's fine. I'm not a fan of America anyways."

The answer was so quick, so fluent. Gilbert knew Mathew meant it. Even jail was better than living with Alfred. It was a mistake to bring up the subject of revenge and if he could, Gilbert would probably take it back. However, time travel was impossible. He'd put himself between two rocks. Trying to be nice never did work out all that good for him. All he wanted to do was comfort Mathew, to make the man stop crying because even if Alfred beat the shit out of him, coming home to see his sobbing brother might make him turn his anger towards Gilbert, which was something the albino didn't want at all.

But killing someone... Taking the life of another...

And it wasn't like it wouldn't be obvious who did it. People saw Gilbert with Alfred lately. He was taken to church, and he was introduced as the new guy. Alfred had loudly pronounced him his friend. If they killed him, not only would Mathew be unblamed because he didn't exist, but Gilbert's disappearance would only confirm their ideas.

He would go to jail for the rest of his life. He would rot in a cell. In cold, stone walls.

Gilbert looked at Mathew and the blond's eyes twitched towards him. Their gazes met and again that flood of uselessness and sadness washed through him. This man needed help. He was looking at things so wrong, but that wasn't his fault. Alfred had twisted his mind, had screwed him up in more ways than one. To give back to his brother what had been done to him was probably the only thing Mathew could register as the right thing to do. In his mind, there was no other way to end this. Even if it meant to die in jail, to be locked away for the remaining years of his life, it didn't mean anything to him so long as he could be a free man.

It was wrong. Gilbert felt the responsibility of saving Mathew settle itself on his shoulders and push him down. Killing Alfred broke the law, yet it would bring a nonexistent man to life. In return for the happiness and well-being of one person, another had to die.

So, so wrong...

"Please." Mathew didn't step towards him. Instead he threaded his hands together, clasping them tightly with his face suddenly childishly sad and pleading. "Gilbert, you have to help me. I can't... I can't last much longer. This is the only way..."

And it was. And Gilbert knew it. And _goddammit _he couldn't say no.

"... Dree days."

"What?"

Gilbert raised his one hand, the three centre fingers stretched upright. "Vait dree mohre days und ve'll doh et."

Mathew didn't speak for a moment. He simply stared at the German, eyes flickering and judging. Searching. Then he glanced to the side and focused on a spot behind Gilbert. "Fine." His tone made it obvious he wasn't happy. "Al's not working Thursday, so nobody will notice for a bit."

That gave them at least twenty-four hours to escape. It was short notice, but better than just having a single night. "Gut. Den, vhat's de plan?"

Something brightened in Mathew's eyes, and the American slipped into a seat at the table, both of them very aware of the two chairs that separated them. Such a simple little paranoia, yet it screamed louder than any silence. "Okay, this is what I was thinking..."

* * *

Monday afternoon, before his shared shift with Kiku, Gilbert, in a house all by himself, dug out the folder of information his uncle had given him so many weeks ago. It felt like years since he last spoke to anyone in Germany, and opening the folder to read the papers typed in his native tongue almost made him think he was back home on a plane, waiting to begin a new life across the ocean. The pictures with facts about Bagdad, about Ludwig, about the house... Gilbert skimmed past them all to the very back where he had ignored the final sheet. It was a simple letter from his uncle. Just a small thing saying 'good-bye' as if he were leaving a relative from a much too short visit.

At the bottom was an email and phone number. Gilbert knew neither of those were really his uncle's, and they were both registered to someone else, some pawn under his family's list, but he took the paper with him out of the house, a pocket full of change, and made a twenty minute walk into town to the mall outside of the video store. There were two pay phones being unused beside the bench he and Kiku always sat on for their breaks. He stepped up to one and plunked in four quarters, dialling the proper numbers from the paper;

_011 _to call outside of the United States.

_49 _to dial inside of Germany.

_30 _to dial inside of Berlin.

_92 93 39_ the personal, local number.

It took a second for the call to go through, and Gilbert leaned against the phone booth, folding the paper into his uniform's back pocket. When a gruff, non-pleasant voice answered Gilbert replied with what he always did when he phoned any fake number to talk to his uncle. "Beilschmidt, Gilbert."

He wasn't even given a response from the other man before the line fell quiet and the faint sounds of buttons being pressed could be heard. Moments later the phone rang again, as if he'd never been answered in the first place, and it took about ten rings before it was picked up. "_**What?**_"

"_America sucks, you know._"

"_**Gil... bert?**_"

Gilbert basked in the brief falter of his uncle's words. Not many people could brag they made the head of a german mafia stutter in shock. "_Nice to hear you too, Uncle. Miss you, love you, wanna hug you, can't wait to see you again, and all that blah, blah, blah. I know I shouldn't be calling, but I have a problem. A... big one._"

Gilbert hoped nobody around spoke German, because even his most vague explanation of his 'problem' was pretty detailed. He glanced around, keeping check on who stared at him and who didn't. Most of everybody did, except for the lady behind the coffee counter, who had waved and chirped hello at him when he walked through the mall entrance. It wasn't like an albino was common in Florida, America. Especially not an albino wearing the most God awful uniform in the world. But despite all the odd glances and stares, nobody looked keen on hovering around listening to his conversation. He felt awkward talking about a murder so openly in a mall. And worst of all, his uncle was saying absolutely nothing in response the entire time. Just sitting and listening.

Listening until Gilbert finished, where he finally spoke, his tone dark and cold. Angry. "_**I told you not to get into trouble.**_"

"_I know, I know! I tried, I swear! But this whole mystery brother thing was just so—_"

"_**No excuses, Gilbert! I promised your mother I would take care of you, but when you go running off sticking your nose into everything and creating more problems than I can afford, how do you expect me to help you? This could destroy me! This could get me locked away forever, and not able to protect you, and it could get you thrown into jail too, or killed!**_"

Gilbert almost winced. There was a certain line with his uncle's patience, and he'd stepped over it long ago. "_Look, I know I screwed up again, and I'm sorry, but I have to help him._"

"_**No you don't.**_"

"_Regardless of what you say, I'm going to do this. So either you help me, and try to keep me alive, or I'll just get my ass thrown into prison and you'll have screwed your promise to Mum away._" It was a dirty trick, using the final words his mother and uncle shared as leverage to make his father figure do what he wanted. He almost felt bad instantly. Almost enough to apologize again. Almost enough to take it back and say, "You know what? Never mind. I'll just do what you want and let Mathew get beaten every day until finally his brother ends up killing him, because it's bound to happen."

But he didn't.

And Gilbert was glad he kept his mouth shut, because his uncle sighed, his will power breaking despite being able to illegally control an entire mass of people under the eyes of the police and special forces. All for his troublesome nephew who just couldn't sit still and live life properly. "_**If I do this, and you get out of it, will you promise me—and I mean **__**promise**__**, Gilbert—that you'll stay quiet for as long as it takes for this to blow over and you to be safe?**_"

Gilbert couldn't help smiling. A real smile. There was something rubbing behind his eyes, squeezing out beneath them at the sound of such tired emotion from his single living relative. The only man Gilbert had ever truly cared about, besides his friends. The only person who made him feel, his entire life, like he meant something.

He blinked back the emotions, swallowed them whole, and mumbled a reply, "_Promise._"

He hung up about ten minutes later with a safety net beneath his and Mathew's plan. His uncle was an amazing man, that was certain. Even if the protection wasn't one hundred percent confirmed yet, there were two days to go. Two days, and then Gilbert would hopefully be out of America with a blond under his wing, both of them heading for safety and a life they could rebuild alone.

Kiku saw Gilbert stepping into the store from the mall entrance. He smiled, head tilting cutely, and Gilbert almost felt bad that this would be their last shift together as co-workers. "Hello, Gilbert. How are you today?" he asked, as if nothing was wrong.

Because to the rest of the world, there wasn't. It was just a normal day for them.

* * *

By Wednesday night Gilbert was packed. He had a small duffel bag with some clothes and his wallet, plus two passports. His old German one, and a new Canadian one for Mathew. Both of which he obtained yesterday, trading in the folder of information his uncle had given him so that the American worker of his uncle could burn it and get rid of any traces it existed. Gilbert was not a German citizen in the eyes of the American police when they came to search his home. He was an American, an immigrant from Europe, and he was the older brother of Ludwig Schwarzkopf. He was not the son of a murdered father and a terminal cancer victim mother. He was not the nephew of a mafia owning uncle. He was not friends with a Spaniard and Austrian couple. And he was not illegally living in America to hide from a Russian mob.

The zipper sounded awfully loud when he pulled it closed over the messily tucked clothes. A note lay beside his bag on his bed, his own familiar sharp writing clumsy as it scrawled out the English sentences. Best the police understood what it said instead of them hauling Ludwig into a room to translate, and maybe get him in trouble for lying.

Gilbert picked up the note after slipping the bag over his shoulder. It felt awkward and heavy on his one side. He wasn't sure if that was from the weight of all the items inside, or from what it symbolized. His departure. His second running away. His next mistake...

His first murder.

He tip-toed down the hallway of the house, watching the stairs for their noisy spots. Ludwig and Feliciano were sitting on the couch together watching a movie. Most sounds were muffled by the sheer volume the characters were yelling each other in on the screen, but Gilbert was extra cautious. He'd said nothing to his 'brother' about leaving. He'd acted totally normal (or so he hoped) so it actually surprised them all when Ludwig found his bedroom empty the next morning. Even going as far to pretend to be sick for the past two days just to play it out like he felt bad and was going to bed early. That way nobody would check on him and he'd be in the clear for the entire night.

Over the tops of the couch's back, Gilbert saw Ludwig's head of blond, slightly askew from the gel loosening. Feliciano's mop of auburn was resting gently on Ludwig's shoulder, small giggles rising when the people in the movie made jokes and sarcastic wise cracks. Gilbert stood in the archway watching them for a moment. Taking in the sight of them, peaceful, happy. Oblivious.

He bent down and placed the note on the carpet below. It was a brief good-bye. No explanation. Nothing to do with why he was leaving. He thanked Ludwig for being there for him, the best _brother_ of them all, and to tell Feli and Kiku he was sorry, but _it had to be done_.

That was all.

After snatching Ludwig's scarf off the coat rack and wrapping it around his face, Gilbert crept out of the house as silent as the wind. The door barely made a sound when it closed.

Inside, Ludwig glanced over his shoulder, wondering if the feeling he'd felt was truly someone staring at him. But there was no one. He shrugged and turned back to the TV, more aware of the way Feliciano's hand curled gently in his than the cheap movie plot.

* * *

It wasn't his favourite part of the plan to have to walk to Alfred's, but it needed to be done. Ludwig's truck was too loud to take, and Feliciano parked his car along the street, so if he turned it on the headlights would flood through the living room window, alarming the owner and his not-so-subtle-boyfriend inside of Gilbert's actions. Secrecy was top priority at this time. Gilbert respected that.

However, he still hated walking.

By the time he reached the front step of the twin's place his face had a light sheen of sweat and his hands were clammy both from nerves and the long hike. His fingers almost slipped over the doorbell when he pressed it, listening to the loud church bell chimes echo loudly inside. His heart was beating loudly in his chest, filling his ears and making it impossible to hear anything else except the sound of Alfred's hurried footsteps rushing to the door. What if it all went wrong? What if Alfred survived, or someone found them? What if—?

Alfred pulled open the front door, beaming brightly. His eyes widened at the sight of Gilbert, and the way he laughed was so pure and innocently naive that it pulled on Gilbert's heartstrings. "Hey, you! Wow, you just love showing up unannounced! What is this, the fourteenth time?"

"Second," Gilbert mumbled, uncharacteristically quiet, but Alfred didn't notice as the blond rushed him inside, chattering absentmindedly about some movie him and Mathew were watching.

Alfred practically skipped down the hall to where the extremely well hidden basement entrance was, and he tugged it open a fraction. "Don't worry, Mattie! It's just Gilbo! You can come out!" He straightened and started back towards his albino 'friend'. "You hungry or anything? We got some McDonalds and leftover pizza if you want."

"Noh, I'm ohkay." Gilbert moved forwards a bit, pretended to stumble, and his bag slipped from his fingers. Just as he and Mathew said he should act. It fell with a thud, something hard making immediate contact with the floor, and Gilbert cursed in his native tongue before leaping to the ground to open up his bag and violently dig through it.

Alfred blinked, slightly taken aback by the urgency of Gilbert's reaction. "Whoa, dude, watch your step. I didn't know it was slippery. You got somethin' fragile in there or something?"

"Ja, und it might have broke." Gilbert rummaged past the clothes, pretending to be desperately searching for his fragile item. In reality there was a bottle of chloroform nestled nice and safe in the middle of his bag, a cloth wrapped around it.

Out of Gilbert's peripheral vision, a second figure manifest from his hiding spot inside the basement entrance. It was Mathew, wearing a pair of baggy pyjama shorts and a t-shirt decorated with little grey aliens. Alfred's, no doubt. The younger twin smiled when he saw Gilbert, eyes shining from what the German knew was not joy, but an adrenaline rush because this meant that their plan was really going to go through and Alfred was really going to die tonight.

Alfred caught his brother's smile, and he shot back a wicked one before turning towards Mathew. "What're you so happy about, fag?" His light tone did terrible at hiding the layers of maliciousness beneath.

"N-nothing, I'm sorry..." Mathew curled into himself, meek and shy like he always was supposed to be around Alfred. His twin took the reaction and accepted it, shifted back around to face Gilbert.

"Your thing okay, man?" he asked.

Gilbert, his actions hidden by the bag's deep lip, uncapped the chloroform bottle as subtly as he could and dabbed the cloth he had wrapped around it a few times. He scowled and used his free, clean hand to press his scarf closer to his face, pretending to be disgusting with whatever stench it was leaking from his bag. "Ugh, vhat... vhat es dis?"

Alfred wandered closer, predictable as always. "Whoa, what's that smell?"

"I dohn't know." Gilbert stood and reached his arm out, brows creased. "Does et schmell like chloroform toh yoh?"

And Alfred, as stupid as always, took the cloth, brought it up to his face and breathed in deeply. Only for his eyes to roll back into his head and him fall forwards onto the floor, crumbling like a broken bridge.

Alright, Alfred was stupid, but really, _this_ stupid?

Gilbert blinked. So did Mathew. Then the American burst into a fit of giggles and, with the collar of his shirt protecting his face, rushed out of the hallway and back down the basement entrance, squealing something that might have been a chant of, 'We did it, we did it.'

Gilbert glanced down at Alfred's limp form, then to the stained cloth in his hand. Stepping over the fallen Christian's body, he entered the living room where the fireplace, as Mathew promised, was gently flickering its flames.

With a toss of his arm, the cloth fell into the pit.

"Okay, let's bring him down." Mathew reappeared in the hallway, face the brightest Gilbert had ever seen. He was _bouncing_ in his spot. "Did you get the gloves?"

"Ja, dere in here." Neither of them released their protection from their mouths, just in case of the fumes that might still be lingering in the air. Gilbert dug around with his one hand in the bag, pushing aside the recapped chloroform bottle and pulling out a plastic bag with two sets of rubber gloves. He tossed the bag to Mathew, who caught it with ease, and the blond darted back downstairs.

Gilbert followed, his paces less rushed and frantic with excitement. Mathew was slipping on his gloves, both hands now freed thanks to the stale air of the basement not being contaminated. Gilbert also loosened his scarf and began pulling on his own gloves. Neither of the men spoke to each other. One too gleefully to speak, the other filled to the brim with resentment of himself, and questions like why the fuck was he going along with this again? Gilbert's reasoning from before was lost. Even as he stared at Mathew he wasn't sure why he was doing what he was about to do.

"Alright, let's do this." Mathew, once again, took off faster than Gilbert's brain could even _think_ a reply, let alone voice it. Grunting, the albino tied his scarf around his face nice and tight so both his hands were free, and trudged up the stairs after his soon to be murder partner.

Mathew had his breath held, hands grasping Alfred's ankles. Gilbert slipped behind him to Alfred's front where he looped his arms beneath Alfred's armpits, and allowed the unconscious American's head to loll against his chest. Not without an in character scowl, of course.

They quickly carried (Which, in Gilbert's mind, was rather kind of them. He thought Mathew would for sure just toss his brother down the stairs like Alfred had done to him before. Then again, Gilbert guessed Mathew was too out of it to remember that happening...) Alfred down into the basement, Mathew gasping for air and gulping it in greedily as soon as they were in the clear of chloroform tinted oxygen. Alfred was settled into a wooden chair, Mathew reaching behind the ping pong table and into a massive mound of junk searching for ropes to keep his brother from escaping once he awoke.

Gilbert lingered momentarily. Seeing Alfred's abnormally lax body lazily in the furniture, feeling the rubber of the gloves on his fingers, the scratchiness of the scarf around his face, and tasting his hot breath as he breathed hard in and out over and over again... It was just another way for reality to hit him. They were really doing this.

"_Fuck_."

"What?" Mathew glanced up and over the table, looking completely calm despite his bright smile. "You say something?"

"Noh. Noh... I'm just... gohing to close de vindows und vhatnoht."

"Good idea. But hurry."

And hurry he did. Gilbert was fast as he ran around the house, darting here and there into each room, slamming windows shut and locking them, closing curtains or drapes so that no peeking eyes could ever look in. He turned off every light, leaving only the fireplace burning because they would need it again later on. Later, when their tools were all used up and the gloves and clothes needed to be destroyed.

Later, when Alfred would be...

The final place Gilbert checked on was the upstairs guestroom. Mathew's, no doubt. It was rather empty except for a bed that had yet to be made. Probably got a fresh beating for that. Gilbert turned off the room's light and walked across to the window where he tugged open the curtains to close the old fashioned entrance to outside. He was just about done, fingers brushing the lock to twist it shut, when through the glass he saw a light go on in the neighbour's house.

An older woman, maybe sixty, was at her bedroom window, fiddling with something. Gilbert turned the lock and disappeared as quickly as he could, hoping that he only imagined seeing the woman glance his way. Besides, it was dark out, right? It wasn't like she had night vision and could see into a pitch black room.

But the moon had been right above them, shining down on him. And with the curtains open she would have spotted his hair, at least, and...

He pushed the thoughts aside. They'd only need to hurry, that's all. Mathew was positive nobody could hear anything outside of these walls. He screamed all the time, and never did someone come rushing over or call the police against these terrible wails of pain and suffering. Gilbert could only put faith in the idea that the woman would ignore the image of a strange man wearing a scarf around his face like a burglar.

Snatching his bag up from the front hallway, Gilbert made his way down into the basement again, closing the secret door behind him. He made easy work of the stairs, and he simply dumped his bag off by the last step before tearing off his scarf and looking towards the two brothers in the middle of the basement.

Alfred was still knocked out, head down, chin against his chest. He had two ropes wrapped around him. One thin, the other thick. They were crisscrossing each other, and tied at the back, making it impossible for Alfred to wriggle free, regardless of how much he tried.

Mathew turned, his fingers running over a bat in a manner one could only call as lovingly. He smiled at Gilbert, and in the light of the dim basement bulb he looked more like Alfred than ever before. "No turning back now."

Gilbert swallowed. Hard.

"I know."


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Gilbert and Mathew waited. They waited, and they waited in silence, both watching something different. Gilbert couldn't take his eyes off of Mathew, who was staring at the limp form of Alfred, slumped over in the chair that used to sit next to the bed in the basement. Gilbert watched as Mathews gaze had progressed from Giddy, to sadistic, to a hardened expression.

Mathew's eyebrows were furrowed above his eyes that were blood-shot, and more moist than usual. His mouth was a straight line across his face, his lips pursed, and discoloured, and Mathew looked pale. Occasionally, the thin, pursed lips would part so his tongue could flick out and nervously lick them. His legs were shaking, and like usual, Gilbert couldn't tell whether it was from nerves, or impatience.

Gilbert was starting to feel sick, himself. They needed to speed the process up; the silence was giving both of them far too much time to think about their options.

"...Madew" He spoke. The other man flinched, but otherwise didn't speak. "Madew, thees has to speed uhp."

Mathew swallowed what Gilbert could only guess was bitterness. Mathew got up from where he was perched, and walked over to where Alfred was slumped over, and grabbed Alfred's head by that ridiculous cowlick that sprouted out of his head. Then, with that terrifying, yet impressive back-hand that Gilbert had first-hand experience, he slapped Alfred across the face.

Alfred startled awake, and soon enough, it was like the roles had been reversed, and Gilbert dryly swallowed.

"Mattie?" Alfred asked, moving between the ropes, "Mattie, stop joking" Alfred tried to laugh, but he clearly had no idea what to do with the roles reversed.

"I'm not joking, Al."

Gilbert couldn't believe that in the last moments of Alfreds life, they were still calling each other by their nick-names.

"Mattie, stop this. Let me go." Alfred seemed to be realizing the situation.

Mathew didn't reply, and instead raised the baseball bat.

"Mattie...?" and then the baseball bat swung down, with speed and intention, but stopped just short of Alfred's knee cap, just bouncing off of it. It would leave a bruise, but it wasn't awful, like all of them were expecting it to be.

"Ow Mattie! What was that for? That really hurt!" Alfred cried, before he was slapped across the face a couple more times.

"Shut up." Mathew said, his voice flat, his face, a mask.

For once, Alfred obeyed.

"The scars, the fear, the broken bones, the slurs, being trapped, the abuse," Mathew started out, his voice slowly raising, "The words carved in my back, the crosses, the shitty life I have, your god awful food, and god-awful voice." Mathew was yelling now, "The assimilation, the hiding away from the rest of the world. This ends now!"

Alfred was trembling. He had never seen Mathew like this, Gilbert was sure.

"M-Mattie...?" Alfred choked out. His eyes were welling up with tears, but Gilbert knew they couldn't back down now. They had gone too far. Then, Mathew produced a hand-gun from his pocket.

"Where did you find my-" Alfred started, before freezing due to the clicking noise. Mathew had cocked the gun, and then pointed it between Alfred's eyes.

Gilbert could've sworn Mathew whispered something like "I'm sorry" before pulling the trigger, but soon. Alfred's blood splattered as the bullet ripped through his head, and the unmistakable "bang" of the gun rang out.

Gilbert couldn't contain himself anymore, and vomited into the toilet in the small bathroom.

Mathew looked at him, covered in his brother's blood.

"Noh going bahck." Gilbert repeated.

Now, the frantic cleanup started.

They could leave the body where it was, and Mathew ran upstairs to start a fire in the fire-place. A fire place like the one that was on the flash-card Kiku once showed him. Gilbert collected all the rags they needed to burn, and he grabbed the keys to Alfred's car.

"Madew, goh get yohr dings." He commanded, and he started throwing the scarf he had worn before, and the chloroform soaked rag into the fire. "leave the guhn."

Mathew stripped out of his blood soaked clothes, and put on some new ones, handing the clothes to Gilbert to throw into the fire. He scrambled away, and Gilbert had to pull his shirt over his mouth so he could be protected from the thick black smoke that was being produced to the fabric.

A few minutes later, Mathew return with a new sweater, and a bag filled with his stuff.

"Lets goh, Maddew. Ve haff toh go and geht toh a boat."

"...A boat?" Mathews voice was distant.

"Dere vill be a boat toh... Cubah I dink."

"Cuba?" Mathew asked, almost incredulously, "... Al would've hated that!" and he started to giggle uncontrollably before going silently.

"...Lets go." Mathew said, and they walked out to the waiting car outside.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**A/N: Wow first Authors note in awhile. DD and I agreed that we'd stay quiet for a bit during the more, uh, _epic_ moments, if you'd call them that. Kind of makes them more... epic..? Does that make any sense? Anyways. 95 reviews guys. NINETY-FIVE. You have _no_ idea how much we are crazy in love with you all. Your support is just ****undying and seriously, if all of you combined into a single person, and then showed up in our town, we (DD and I) would probably have to have a fight to the death to see who would marry you. **

**Yeah. **

**That made total sense, what are you talking about?**

**3**

**- Seb**

* * *

Gilbert drove, of course. Not only because he wasn't sure if Mathew knew how to drive, but the blond wasn't exactly what he'd call _stable_ right now. Mathew kept mumbling to himself, however quietly, and staring out the window. He didn't rock back and forth. He didn't cry. He just fell silent, whispered a couple words, then continued to stare into the darkness of the streets.

The dock was, naturally, to the south. Bagdad rested in the top left corner of Florida. It wasn't very convenient to catch a boat that might take hours and hours to reach Cuba, but at least the bay was accessible. Especially at night. Nobody bothered to guard it. It was an open harbour, why would they? It made it so much easier for Gilbert and Mathew to escape. They had nothing to complain about.

Driving down the highways and to the pitiful, gravel covered excuse for a parking lot, Gilbert pulled Alfred's little blue car into a small spot, crooked and uncaring. He threw the vehicle into park, ready to tear off the rubber gloves that he'd forced himself and Mathew to wear. Even if his uncle said the men at the dock would take care of everything, he was anal. He had to make sure nothing leaked back about him. Absolutely nothing.

Mathew stepped out of the car a moment after Gilbert did. He gazed out through the night at the water, watching the way the boats shifted and groaned with the brief waves. There was a constant sloshing noise, albeit meek and quiet. The American—no, he was Canadian now. At least, that's what his passport said—kept staring, his back to Gilbert.

The albino half of the team wasn't sure if this was the moment he comforting Mathew or just let him be. Since the former sounded ridiculous, Gilbert turned away, closing the driver's door of the car and glanced around the lot. "Hello?" he called.

"Beilschmidt?" a low voice, not too far away, asked.

Gilbert looked over his shoulder. Mathew was unresponsive. Probably thought 'Beilschmidt' was a German word and not a surname. "Ja. Wo sind dich?"

From behind a small building where the marine manager no doubt stayed during the work hours, a handful of men shuffled out into sight. They wore stereotypical dark clothing, hands tucked deep into their pockets, faces all square and lacking hair. They were extremely similar in appearance. But that was probably the whole point. Gilbert would rather shoot someone than have to look like a crowd of other men. Then again, it was almost impossible with his eyes.

One of the men stepped towards Gilbert and extended a large hand, his German rapid and laced with a southern dialect. "_It's a pleasure to meet you, Herr Beilschmidt. Are you and your companion ready for travel?_"

Gilbert was glad the man didn't call Mathew his friend, because he wasn't sure if that was the title he'd use to explain their relationship. Babysitting was, ironically, still closer. "_Pretty much, yeah._"

The man didn't give his name. None of the others did too. Two of the dark dressed figures unloaded the small amount of belongings Gilbert and Mathew had thrown into the backseat, then slipped inside Alfred's car, started it up, and drove up the hill that lead to the marine. The red glow of the back lights the last thing Gilbert saw of the American vehicle. He wanted to ask what they were to do with the car, but he'd probably get no answer. After all, these men weren't even allowed to say their names let alone deeper information about their missions.

With only three of the men left, two picked up the bags left on the gravel road and headed down the ramp onto the nearest dock. Mathew remained standing where he was, still staring out into the black horizon. Gilbert wanted to grab the man and shake him, screaming that he needed to snap out of it. They'd be fine. They couldn't risk stopping to stare at every little thing that sprouted out in the distance. He needed to go back to normal, to gather his wits again.

Not for the first time, Gilbert thought to himself how much this murder was a bad idea. It would kill him in the long run. That, or Mathew's lagging would.

"Ahre yoh ready toh goh?" Gilbert stepped over to Mathew, keeping a metre of distance between them.

The blond paused. Then he turned around and gave a smile. Had Gilbert not just watched this man blow his brother's head off, he might think that he was completely okay, if only a little tired. "Of course. Lead the way."

Gilbert nodded to the dark cloaked man, who gave a miniscule head bob back. The other German started after the men who held their items, and Gilbert followed, Mathew trailing behind him quickly. They stepped over the docks, the hollow clunking of their shoes the only thing breaking the silence of the night besides the rocking boats and the gentle bells that hung on a few sails. No birds squawked in the background. No vehicle engines roared. It was just them and the sea. Them and the help his uncle hired to keep them alive and safe.

The boat was a large, hunking metal thing. They had to use a moveable set of wooden stairs to climb into the back, gripping the cold rails as they went. It was a fishing vessel with rust along the edges and a small logo, _Dreamer Five_ along the side. Most likely registered, although not quite through the proper way. On the back deck there were piles of fishing rope, traps, and buckets that reeked. Bait, of course. Gilbert was impressed. His uncle went all out when disguising people. The men themselves even had a stench of fish lingering on them.

"_It's no thousand dollar cruise,"_ the man Gilbert had shaken hands with before said from behind him. _"But it will keep suspicion away."_

"_We'll need to stay below most of the time, won't we?" _

The man grinned, showing a row of pearly yellows. _"You act as though you are prisoners, Herr Beilschmidt. I assure you, when we see no one around us, you may be out top. However, if you don't like working with fish, then I'd advise remaining below."_

Prisoners was a nice way of saying it. Gilbert scowled and turned to head below. The man continued to chuckle behind him, but he blocked out the sounds by closing the door that lead to the rooms beneath the front of the boat.

Mathew remained atop, eyes flickering and taking in the sights as best he could without light. He glanced at the strange German man, who was watching him with a more intrigued look than anything else. "Can I... help you?" he asked quietly.

The man tilted his head, although he didn't respond. Perhaps he didn't speak English. Mathew ducked away and followed after Gilbert, disappearing from the creepy stare the other European kept giving him.

Gilbert was sitting on one of the couches within the boat. The interior was small, and there were few beds beside the tiny little kitchen, with a couple others tucked beneath the anchor hatch. The seats were made out of a scratchy fabric, and unlike the desk up top, the entire area was basically clean. Even the beds were nice and made up good. The men had probable never slept in here before.

Gilbert had his elbows on his knees, his palms resting against his forehead. He kept his head down the entire time, barely looking up when Mathew entered the lower chambers of the boat.

Mathew settled himself in a spot across the albino. Their bags were beside them, resting against the edges of a bed. "Is... your stomach okay?"

"Vhat?"

"Your stomach. You threw up, remember? I was wondering if it was okay now."

Gilbert rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. "Ja, et's ohkay."

"Good. I was worried you might be getting sick or something."

This time, Gilbert did raise his head. He stared at Mathew, eyes bloodshot, giving them an even darker red hue. Was this kid serious? Did he not realize that Gilbert vomited because of Alfred's fucking head being blown off? Or was he just trying to act like nothing happened?

But the more Gilbert glared and studied, the more Mathew's far too relaxed face told him that yes, the Canadian truly believed Gilbert was sick. He didn't think for one moment that it might have been the spraying of blood, skull and brains that forced the food in Gilbert's belly to exit out the wrong tube.

Suddenly even more exhausted than before, Gilbert bent over and ripped off his shoes. He tore his socks off a second later, then crawled across the seats into one of the beds, pulling back the clean blankets and burying himself into their softness. The mattresses inside the bunks weren't all that uncomfortable, although the pillows could use some work. He rolled so his back was to Mathew, closed his eyes, and ignored the way the blond's face fell at the rude action.

He didn't fall asleep until he could feel the boat leave the dock, the engine rumbling beneath them.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Mathew felt numb. He couldn't sleep, and even though the gentle rocking made his companion pass out as soon as he hit the pillow.

Mathew had asked if Gilberts stomach was okay, and he wasn't sure why he asked, when he knew it was from Alfred's unfortunate passing. No, it wasn't an unfortunate passing, it was murder. Mathew wondered if he could just block it from his mind.

The room that they were staying in was starting to feel stifling, and far too small. Mathew got up, feeling more week than he had in the past, and he wasn't even able to keep his balance on the rocking boat. As he stepped outside, his nausea passed, and he felt better, if only by a bit.

To be honest, Mathew couldn't really remember what had happened. It was almost as if he had blacked out between the time he picked up that baseball bat, to the time he pulled the trigger. No one could know what he did. No one.

Mathew sat on the bow of the boat, rising and falling violently. A rather tanned sailor walked past, and gave a small wave to Mathew.

"Excuse me, how big are these waves?" Mathew asked.

The man didn't respond right away, either because he didn't speak English, or wasn't sure if it was okay to talk to Mathew. "2 meters" he told him, in a thick Spanish accent. Mathew decided that his presence was the reason why anyone on this boat felt awkward.

With the bow facing south, and to freedom, Mathew sat, also facing his freedom. The cool sea air, though humid, was refreshing, and helped Mathew drift into a semi-conscious sleep.

4 hours straight in wind without proper sleep can really screw with your mind.

"Mathew"

Mathew perked up, out of his half-slumber, and looked around, only to see that he was alone on the deck. The sun was rising, and he could see tropical islands in the distance.

In his head, he kept repeating the word over and over, trying to figure out if he dreamed it or not. Mathew sneezed, he wasn't really feeling well. He thought that maybe he was getting sick, and went down to the room to try to sleep. Gilbert was exactly where he left him. Mathew tried to fall asleep again, and found a comfortable position on his back.

"Mattie"

Mathew's breath hitched in his throat. He recognized that voice.

"Mattie"

He shot up out of bed, and looked around the room franticly. There, in the dark corner, he was there.

"Mattie... Mattie... Mat-Mathew..."

Mathew hid his face under the blanket, and let out a strangled scream, his heart pounding, and sweat dripping down his face.

"Don't touch me! Don't come any closer!" He heard stirring in the bed sheets, and he poked his eyes out, trying to see what it was.

"Madew? Ahre yoh hokay?" Gilbert groggily asked, sitting on the side of his bed, his hand on Mathews shoulder.

Mathew looked around the room. Why wasn't he there anymore? Where was he? The room was too dark, too stifling. He needed to get out of there.

"Don't touch me! Get off!" Mathew screamed, wrenching himself from Gilbert, and scrambling out of the bed. He found his way on the deck again, and running to the back of the boat. He clung to the bar, and puked out the contents of his stomach.

"I killed him... I killed him..." Mathew sobbed. "He's dead, and I killed him!" sweat ran down his face, and mixed with the tears, and saliva running down his chin. He puked again, and heard someone walking behind him. A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up.

He was expecting Gilbert, and he actually saw him emerging from the cabin. The man he saw above him was clearly Cuban. His long dreads were pulled back in a pony-tail, with a bandana tightly wrapped around his head like a head band, with stubble and a cigar clenched in his other hand.

"Hola. Are you hokay?" His voice was deep, and he rolled his "R"'s a bit. Mathew shrugged off his hand, and didn't reply. Gilbert finally reached Mathew, and he noticed just how different the two were.

Mathew choked out another sob, and Gilbert handed him his sweater, and a water bottle. Mathew could've sworn he gave the new-comer a wary look before going to talk to the captain.

"My name is Ismael. Have you been to Cuba before?" He grinned at Mathew before taking another drag of his cigar, which was making Mathew nervous. "We will be there soon, you know."

Mathew looked at the islands, and noticed a large one looming along the horizon. He was out of America. He was free.

A/N) Hey guys! Sorry about the delay, and sorry for the shorter chapter. I honestly had no idea what to write this week.

Hope you enjoyed it anyways!

And no, this won't be the last of hallucinating!Mathew.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

The boat docked with the sun slightly higher in the sky than the horizon. The slight clouds in the vast abyss of oranges and pinks were wispy, similar to the tips of a beard. It was beautiful, to say the least. Cuba seemed to glow beneath the radiant morning, and it was one of the few times Gilbert found himself transfixed on a scenery shot.

Mathew was below deck, hiding away. The German man from before stood a little ways behind Gilbert, silent and content with his successful job. Gilbert himself was at the bow, only a few inches separating him from the rails and bars that kept him within the ship's boundaries instead of tumbling into the blue water below and getting sucked under the hull. He had on a thin yellow t-shirt and white shorts, colours that didn't exactly compliment his complexion, but that was what he wanted. The less attention he drew, the better. If his shirt made his hair look a tinge blond instead of silver, that was fine with him. Less stares and gaping looks.

Now, if only he could work on the eyes...

"_Where will we go next?"_ Gilbert's question was to the wind, but it drifted back and into the ears of the mystery German man.

The man might have shrugged. It was unseen by the albino gaze though. _"We have an apartment waiting for you with your mother's name. You can live there quietly. A couple of my men will stay behind and watch over you, undercover of course. They'll help you find jobs and watch for anyone who might be suspicious."_

So it was the who shebang. By mother, Gilbert was sure the man meant a fake one. His uncle would probably never allow anyone to use Gilbert's true mother's name anywhere. Especially not in illegal human trafficking. _"Alright."_

He was staring at his new home. Cuba. Land of the cigar smoking anti-Americans. It was less like Germany than the United States...

Gilbert rubbed his jaw. There were barely any people milling about the docks, and most of the air was quiet. The only sounds that broke the preferred silence were grunts and shuffling boots smacking wooden planks as workers carried heavy loads to and from the boat onto shore. Gilbert noticed the man with the dreads from before taking care of Mathew and his luggage. The Cuban was carrying the suits up the ramp onto land, and dropped them off somewhere behind a building. Most likely near a car.

The German man slide into a spot beside Gilbert, grabbing his attention with his sleek movements. _"You should be taking your friend now, Herr Beilschmidt. We'll be leaving in a bit."_

We. Not Gilbert and them, but just the boat of men. All these workers who risked their lives for an illegal act. For a couple of idiot kids who decided that hey, maybe killing someone would be a good idea! Especially when you're trying to hide from a mafia and the fact that you're albinism is easy to pick out practically anywhere. Those men would be leaving to work a job that hid who they truly worked for. They'd be going on to live a life of lies, of fake families and care, and probably of emptiness too.

It made Gilbert feel bad. Almost.

He turned away from the German and slipped down the short flight of stairs to the belly of the boat. The hallways were small, but it wasn't like anyone was down there to make a clusterfuck. Only Mathew, the lone figure, was in sight. Curled up in his bed, facing away to the wall of the boat. His body swaying with the dips the vessel took in the water.

"Hey, geht up." Gilbert nudged the blond with his knuckles, rocking the smaller figure the slightest bit. "Madew, geht up."

Mathew didn't respond. His eyes were open, violet and shadowed, staring into the pale wallpaper of the ship's interior.

Gilbert scowled. The American—no, _Canadian_ now—was laying on top of his bed, not beneath it. The blankets were cushioning his body rather than covering it. Like a mother trying to drag her son off his ass to go to school, Gilbert gripped the edge of the blankets and pulled. Hard.

Mathew's body jerked, but it didn't roll like it was supposed to. Instead, Gilbert had slackened his leg muscles too much and slid backwards with a yelp, crashing to the floor. His head smashed into the edge of _something_ on the way down and it hurt like a motherfucker, to say the least. _"Shit!"_ he swore.

Of course, Mathew being Mathew, was roused from his angsting at the sound of someone in pain. Someone who had been physically hurt because of him. He rolled onto his other side, pushing his upper torso up and peering worriedly over the edge of the bed. "You okay?" he asked.

"Doh I lohk ohkay?" Gilbert rubbed the back of his head, one eye closed from the throbbing. "Dat hurt."

"Should I... call someone?"

"Like who? Ve're noht exahctly medically cohvered."

Mathew's brow creased, and for a moment he looked like a puzzled Alfred trying to figure out the next step in a problem. "Are you hurt that bad?"

Gilbert snorted, but his lips stretched against his will into a grin. "Kesese, schtop being a baby. Et's a bump, dat's ahll."

"Are you sure?"

"I said schtop being a baby!" Gilbert rose to his feet, still rubbing the spot on the back of his head more to find the wound rather than soothe it. Sure enough, an egg was rising from the curve at the back of his skull. Great. That'll be awkward to sleep on. "Und schtop asking me soh many dings. Et's annohying."

"Sorry." Mathew slithered his legs to hang over the edge of his bed, head slightly lowered. His bangs fells gracefully into his eyes, and Gilbert noticed their slight stringiness, the extra shine, the odd plastic hue...

"Yoh need a shower," the albino grunted, eyes latched onto the faintly greasy hair. "Ve're aht de dock. Leht's goh."

If Mathew heard the first comment he didn't say anything about it. He just remained quiet, keeping his gaze low and not really joining in on any conversation as he followed Gilbert out of the boat's insides and onto the dock. The large German male shook Gilbert's hand, brushing aside the younger's thanks with a shrug and a shake of the head. He smiled, laughed at something he said, then turned away and went back onto his ship, barking orders in thickly accented English.

Gilbert only glanced at Mathew briefly before he was moving down the dock, hands sliding into his front jean pockets. Standing behind him, silent and still, Mathew couldn't help notice how much smaller Gilbert seemed. It was as if the albino had lost twenty pounds in the short time span of their first meeting. His shoulders seemed smaller, his frame skinnier, weaker... He was withering away, his hair darkening, his flesh tanning...

And suddenly Mathew was staring at the retreating back of his brother. His brother, Alfred, who's skull was blown open, golden tresses stained crimson, brain and leakage dripping down his shirt. His bones were covered by skin only, as if he'd withered into a simple skeleton. His every step seemed pain filled, his breathing hollow and raspy.

Mathew's breathing hitched. His eyes widened, his fingers curled into his palms, clenching. He trembled the slightest bit, telling himself over and over again _he's dead, he's dead, he's dead_.

Yet Alfred kept moving, and it was a few steps more that he stopped, body stiffening to turn.

"Mattie. Mattie. Mattie... Mattie..."

Mathew squeezes his eyes shut.

"Mattie... Mattie. Mattie?"

"Madew?"

Footsteps. Shifting. Mathew cracked open his eyes and gazed down, down at the shoes of Alfred. "Madew, vhat're yoh dohing?"

The American's stare slowly rose, trailing along the pale legs, the white shorts, the yellow t-shirt... Then to the pasty face and red eyes, silver hair. Clean, well cut, frowning, albino...

Gilbert. Not Alfred.

"S-sorry," Mathew whispered, stumbling forwards to catch up to his... whatever Gilbert was to him. Not much of a friend, but more than an aquantience. "I was, um, just remembering the boat. Y-yeah."

Gilbert's eyebrows cocked. "Ja, ohkay." He turned away and started back towards the ramp to to the car Ismael was waiting for them by. Muttering all the while under his breath in German, most likely nothing kind towards the blond.

Mathew trailed behind as close as possible.

* * *

"Mattie, Mattie, Mattie..."

* * *

**A/N: **

**:)**


	20. Chapter Twenty

Arthur Kirkland ducked under the iconic yellow tape marked "CRIME SCENE". The reporters were swarming the yard of the half-burned house, lord knows the last time the small town had news this big.

"What is it, Chief?" Arthur asked the large, balding man.

"It seems like the house caught fire last night, after the fire place was left un-checked. The neighbours noticed, and phoned."

"Is that all?" Arthur asked.

"No. It appears that one of our citizens died last night." He said, his southern accent emphasizing every other word or so.

"Who is it?" He took out his notepad, and started taking notes.

"Alfred Jones."

"Okay. So will I find all the research at the station?" Arthur asked.

"Yes." Arthur started to leave before the chief continued. "There's another thing. We're bringing in a specialist for this." The chief said, and then spat into the grass.

"Oh?"

"Yes. He claimed to know you, so we are putting you in charge of this case."

"Sir," Arthur began, "I'm flattered that you think I can do this, but I really only just got here, and... well... Who is this specialist?"

"Some frenchy." The chief spat again, "I'm sure you can deal with it."

"Some... Frenchy? What's his name?" Arthur became nervous.

"I dunno!" The chief barked out, "It's Francois something or other."

The chief started to walk away, his attention diverted by something. Arthur couldn't move. He knew exactly who the French specialist was. He dreaded the man, they only met once, yet the man had a way of pushing himself into Arthurs... being, for lack of a better word.

He was French.

He was one of the best detectives in the business.

He was Francis Bonnefoy.

Mathew had just washed himself off in the shower of the flat they were staying at. They were right down town in Havana, and they could hear the salsa music drift in from the streets and clubs below.

Feeling fresh, Mathew felt a bit better, revelling in the moment where the haunting visions of his brother weren't plaguing him.

Gilbert slept on the couch, sprawled out as much as possible, not quite used to the heat. His buttoned up shirt opened across his pale chest, and his hair now stringy and shiny, with sweat beading across his furrowed brow.

"Ey, _Querido_, Are you feeling better?" The tanned Ismael asked him as he cut into an apple with a serrated knife.

"Yes, I think I am" Mathew timidly smiled. Ismael bit into the piece he sliced off.

"Do you want to walk around with me? There are things I want to do." He spoke through gnashing teeth and juice from the fruit.

Mathew paused for a second, not sure how to answer. He wasn't used to being invited to things like "hanging out". He didn't know this man. He would be leaving Gilbert behind if he left. He didn't know the area, and he didn't know what they would be doing.

Then again, he only knew a small town and a small house.

"I'll go." He said with resolve.

"_Bueno_!" Ismael cried. He disposed of the rest of his apple, and threw his green button up over his white wife-beater, leaving it open. Mathew put away his towel, and threw on a simple long-sleeved shirt and flip-flops with his cargo shorts.

"Let's go." Mathew breathed out.

They walked out of the flat and down the rickety, yet somehow charming stairs into the street. The air smelled of spice, and coffee. It was fresh, like the ocean, and even though it was humid, a smell of mangoes and citrus seemed to hang in air. Mathew smiled. This place was wonderful. The buildings were beautifully old, some with bullet holes, he assumed from the Bay of Pigs among other battles that took place in the street.

Yes, bullet holes. Bullets holes that were like the thing that was in Alfred's forehead. Bullet holes that seemed to ooze blood as he walked beside Ismael.

"Math...ew..." The phantom.

"Can-can we stop somewhere?" Mathew whimpered.

Ismael looked at him with a puzzled expression, before noticing his trembling with fear.

"Of course, _amigo_. We will have lunch, on me!" Ismael smiled.

Mathew tried to smile back, and tried to ignore the phantom beside him.

They walked to a café where more fast salsa music was playing.

"Ey, Rakina!" Ismael called to the girl behind the counter, "The usual, _porfavor, Para mi, y para mi amigo!"_

She answered with a cheerful "Si!" and disappeared into the back.

"She is such a nice girl." He told Mathew as he led him to a table with two wicker chairs on either side.

"What do you think of my city?" He asked, smiling as broad as can be.

"It's beautiful." Mathew answered, still looking around for the ghost. They sat in silence. Rakina came out with 2 iced waters with lime and mint leaves in them.

"_Gracias."_ Ismael smiled.

"_Como estas?"_ she asked Mathew.

"er, No hablas espagnole." Mathew answered. She shot Ismael an amused look before she left.

They sat in silence again.

"I think I know what you are going through." Ismael told him.

"Oh? I doubt it." Mathew replied, taking a sip of the water, and wondering if drinking it was going to end badly.

Ismael looked both ways first as if scanning the empty café for someone, and then said, "Did you kill someone?"

Mathew choked on his water.

"H-how...?"

Ismael shrugged, "Rumours on the boat, and I recognized the way you acted."

"How?" Mathew asked again.

"I went through the same things. The same behaviour." He sipped his water, and Rakina brought 2 baskets out with tortillas covered in sauce, fried meat, cheese, and smothered in salsa. Mathew's mouth watered in anticipation.

They changed the subject as they both dug into the food they were given. Sometime after, Ismael paid, and they were out the door again.

"Where are we going now?" Mathew asked.

"My favourite place," The tan Cuban replied.

They walked through the streets, climbing hills, Ismael waving to people he knew, and more walking. Sweat beaded onto Mathews face, some droplets rolling down, and he hoped that whatever special place Ismael had in mind was worth it.

Finally, they reached the destination. On the top of a hill, overlooking the city and bay, sat a small chapel, its rustic walls crumbling, and sunlight filtering in through the decaying thatched roof. As they walked through the path between the pews, towards the plain wooden cross at the head of the room, Mathew started to feel a bit uncomfortable. The cross that loomed over them made it feel like all of his crucifix scars were on fire, and he absentmindedly scratched at them.

"Math...ew. Mathew."

The voice was getting stronger.

"Amigo." Ismael said.

Mathew looked over at him. Ismael sat on a pew at the front, hunched over and resting on his elbows, his dread locks flowing freely. His hands were clasped around a rosary necklace, and he smiled up at Mathew.

"You are safe here." Ismael told him. Mathew didn't believe him, not when Alfred was so close, not when his scars so closely resembled the symbols in the church that caused him such pain. The place was not worth the climb up, and Ismael was crazy for taking him there.

"Come, sit." He patted the space next to him on the pew. Mathew stiffly sat next to him, his spine ridged and straight.

"...why did you bring me here, Ismael?" Mathew asked.

"I wanted to confide in you."

"...what is it?"

"I killed someone, you know?"Mathew swallowed. "I didn't know any better back then. I was young, and I couldn't afford him to live. It was an interesting time, you know? American assassins everywhere, no one really knew what was for sure; people went missing on a regular basis. It was easy to do away with him. I started seeing him everywhere, and simple things reminded me of that night. I was a wreck, and that's when I found this place. It seemed to calm me down, and I could focus here. I suppose you could say that I found god." Ismael grinned, and it somehow relieved Mathew to hear that he went through the same thing, though he was still uncomfortable.

"God and me don't mix," Mathew replied. "I suppose you could say that Christianity got me into this mess." He pulled up one of his sleeves, and showed Ismael his scars.

He hissed. "Mathew, please don't blame God, or religion. I'm not saying that you should believe me, and I'm sure as hell not trying to convert you, but you have to realize that most religion out there is just people using it as a tool of justification to do horrible things."

Mathew remained quiet, and tugged his sleeve back down.

"I can tell you this, for sure though. I wouldn't believe in a God if it was benevolent. My God loves and he will forgive both of us if we can forgive ourselves and stay on the right path."Ismael paused. "I want you to take my rosary."

Ismael handed Mathew the necklace, and for some reason, Mathew started to tear up. He supposed it was because his words somehow struck home. The hole in his chest felt like it was pulsating, but it felt like it was trying to heal itself.

"Thank you, Ismael." He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, "I hope I can find forgiveness too."

Ismael stood up, and pulled Mathew into a hug, holding him until his tears turned into sobs, and then died into soft hiccups. They stood, actually comfortable in each other's grips for once. They're sense of kinship gave them a bond that Mathew suspected no one would know what was like. They let go.

"Enjoy Cuba, _Mi amigo."_

A/N)

HOLY EFF.

ANOTHER CHAPTER.

AND ITS LONG.

AND ITS EARLY!

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF- THIS IS SO EXCITING!

Anyways, enjoy more talk about religion. And fluff. Wonderous fluff. :D

DD, DD WHY ARE YOU WRITING CUBAxCANADA? ISN'T IT SUPPOSED TO BE PRUCAN?

. SHHHHH! QUIET, OR THEY'LL DISCOVER MY SECRET LOVE!

Thanks guys, reviews are always appreciated! :D


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

The station was nearly empty thanks to the fire taking everyone's attention. Only a few officers and secretaries remained in the building, lounging by their computers, sipping their coffees. The boss was in the back, sitting in his spinning chair with a somewhat relaxed look to him considering the circumstances of his town. He had just got back from the fire and God what a mess. It was a miracle nobody was killed aside from the boy. The flames could have spread to the rest of the neighbourhood had the woman next door not stayed up that night to notice and call the police.

Near the door of the station, a woman had her tea in one hand and typed away with the other. She was small, brunette, and aging. Although only slightly. When she smiled her whole face we said to light up, but right now her painted lips remained in a frown, because she could see a familiar figure stalking towards her through the glass of the station doors. 'Oh, God, not him...' was honestly the let thing she thought before the doors blew open and Arthur Kirkland burst into the station, a tornado of rage whipping out at everything with his infamous temper.

"Stalk!" Kirkland bellowed. He ignored the secretary's meek attempt to quiet him and brushed past her desk through the station to the back. "Stalk I need to talk to you!"

Within his office, Stalk made a noise caught between a scowl and a sigh. "Talking doesn't need raised voices, Arthur," he muttered. Only one person heard the words, a tall figure leaning against the wall who sniggered softly at the chief's exhaustion.

"Stalk what the hell are you thinking hiring-" In Arthur Kirkland stormed, and immediately quieted in his ranting. The little man was staring at the figure leaning against the wall. The figure who was tall with golden hair and a lusty smile. The figure who dressed impeccably good and had eyes that danced multitudes of blues. "—Bonnefoy."

"Hello, Art'ur." Francis grinned wickedly. A charming Cheshire cat. "Eet's been far too long."

"Not long enough, considering that you're _here_," Arthur snapped. He leered at Stalk, who was watching the interaction with terribly hidden amusement. "Why-" Arthur pointed an accusing finger at Francis, hating the way the Frenchman chuckled at his childish display of anger. "-did you hire _him?_ We don't need a specialist! It's a simple fire!"

"Lets start this from the top." Stalk leaned forwards on his desk, elbows brushing the wood, meaty fingers entwining together. He placed his chin on the tops of his hands, tiny eyes staring Arthur harshly under the lights of the office. "You just started this job. I've been here twenty years. You're a lackey. I'm a chief. I pull all the strings, while the only thing you pull is your own dick." A pause. Short and brief, but more than enough to make Francis start giggling again like a 13-year-old school girl. "So, Kirkland, why don't you just be quiet and do what you're told for once? It would make my life a lot easier."

"But—" Stalk's glare shut down Arthur's complaint instantly. The Brit growled, although he managed to divert his stare before doing so. Might as well _try_ not to lose your brand new job. Especially not in front of Francis motherfucking Bonnefoy. "Fine," he grunted.

"Zo..." Francis slithered up to Arthur's side close enough to have their body heat brushing against each other, but not so much that Arthur could physically feel their arms touching. Enraging, to say the least. The Frenchie always knew how to drive him up the wall. "Shall we go?"

Arthur glared into the wall, far, far away from his boss and aggravating new comrade, and mused to himself how jail didn't sound so bad if it meant Francis was dead.

* * *

The crime scene was littered with ash. It made it almost impossible to find anything worth inspecting, but still Arthur found himself pushing through the ruined house of Alfred Jones. The charred walls, the burnt furniture, it's obvious the fire started in the living room and slowly snuck down to the basement. What more was there to figure out? And why in the hell did Stalk need Bonnefoy for this simple job anyways? The man was the best in France. Best in Europe. What good was he here, wasting the government's money, in a tiny town within Florida, U.S.A.?

None, that's what.

Just a waste of space and time.

Nothing new about that, Arthur supposed.

"The body is down here, sir." An officer wearing the blue uniform motioned to what looked like a broken and destroyed door to a basement. Arthur thanked the man and took the steps gingerly, ignoring Francis following close behind. They came into a dark place, quickly flicking on their flashlights, and Arthur all but gagged on the stench. Burnt, dead body smell. Oh yeah, he didn't miss that at all.

"Ugh," Francis groaned, covering his nose and mouth with his delicate collar. Always fashionable, even in a crime scene. Idiot. "Eet smells like your old apartmeent."

"Shut up. I don't want to talk to you."

"Oh, deed I 'urt your pride? My apologeez. I only speek ze truth."

"I said, shut up."

"What's wrong, Art'ur? Don't like to zink about our... relationsheep?"

"For fuck sakes, Frog, shut the hell up!" Arthur whirled around to face Francis, flashlight pointed straight into the man's face. Francis yelped and quickly shut his eyes from the bright light, now covering his entire face with his shirt. "This is a professional job, okay? Nothing more, nothing less. I don't care why you're really here. I don't care what you say. Just shut up and do your job right."

Without saying another word, Arthur turned away from Francis and started shining the flashlight around the area. He saw the burnt body, the crusted corpse sitting slouched in the crumbling remains of a chair, the destroyed walls and what were probably mounds of crap piled together. A typical basement. Only with a dead body, of course.

Arthur poked around, nudging things with his toe, pushing aside different objects with his plastic gloved fingers. No matter what he did everything was exactly how it should be. Just burnt. A burnt death. A burnt scene. But protocol was protocol and even if he wouldn't find anything because this was so boring and such a simple scene and Goddammit Francis was annoying with all that humming and Arthur would kill him if he didn't learn to shut up soon and—

_Tinkle._

Arthur blinked and looked down. Under the beam of light a small silver nub brushed his toe, unharmed from the heat of the fire. It used to be a tube, but now it was crushed at the nose, and Arthur knew why. Bullets always crushed after firing. It was common sense. But why... why would a bullet be..?

"Art'ur."

Arthur shifted around, light finding its way to Francis. The man was crouched by Jones's remains, fingers prodding through the head section. It was terrifying to see Jone's expression in crusted, black form. Terrifying, revolting, yet somehow intriguing to look at. "What now?"

"Zees man, Jones..." Francis dipped his finger somewhere into Jone's forehead. Something he shouldn't have been able to do. " 'e was shot. Can you find a bulleet?"

"I already did." Arthur picked up the crumbled bullet and walked over to his fellow European. Francis took the empty shell and twisted it between his long, well used fingers, the flashlight easily illuminating the bullet with sharp shines and highlights. "So you're saying... This was a murder."

"Unleess Alfreed Jones shot 'imself and zen set 'is own 'ouse on fire."

"Couldn't he start the fire, walk down here, and then shoot himself?"

"Zat eez a rat'er extravagant deeth, but I zuppose zo. Would 'ee zough? Would Jones keel 'imself?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and ignored the urge to throw his arms into the air. Francis was still inspecting the bullet, after all, and deterring the light would be rather annoying. "How the hell should I know? I've never met the man! I can't ask him now either!"

Francis gave him what was closest to an exasperated look. Which was strange, since usually the roles were reversed, and Arthur felt somewhat childish (again) in front of the man. Twice in one day. Fuck he needed to get rid of this pathetic frog. "Eet was a reetoreecal question, Art'ur. Of course you do not know 'im. 'owever..."

Francis straightened and, slipping one glove off, placed the hand into his jean pocket. After pulling out his cell phone, a fancy Blackberry of some kind, of course, nothing else could be stylish enough for Francis-obnoxious-douchebag-Bonnefoy, he only pressed two numbers before lifting the device to his ear and waiting a moment. Quietly Arthur waited, and it wasn't until Francis started talking in motherfucking_ French _did he glower and scowl.

After his brief conversation, Francis hung up and tucked his phone away. He turned to Arthur with that damnable dashing smile of his. "Zo, Art'ure, 'ow about une tasse de café?"

And of course, Arthur being Arthur, agreed. But in his own way. He really did throw his arms in the air, and as the flashlight flew from his grasp and fell towards the ground, he was more then happy to hear Francis yelp in pain as the object made contact with his oh-so-Frenchie head.

"So..."

Francis raised his eyes from over the ridge of his mug, blue flashing to meet green. "Oui?"

Arthur growled warningly, "The information, _Bonnefoy_. I know your little spy called back. What did he say?"

"_She,_ Madeline, says many zings. 'owever, I would like to speek with your boss, euh... What eez 'e's name? Slate?"

"Stalk," Arthur corrected.

Francis grinned crookedly. "Oui, Stalk."

Arthur frowned after a moment of silence, refusing to drink the tea that had been placed down in front of him. It was still hot, warming his palms nicely. However it seemed silly to try and drink a non-iced beverage in Florida... Besides, it would give Francis far too much satisfaction to see Arthur drink and enjoy the order the Frenchman made. Because unfortunately for Arthur, he ordered it perfect.

"If you didn't want to bring anything up around me," Arthur began slowly, brushing the rim of the mug with his thumb. "Why are we here?"

Francis paused. Almost hesitant if you were sharp enough to notice. Then he lowered his coffee, the milk swirling with the espresso in a beautiful twisting of shades and tones of brown. His eyes glanced downright, and his pale lashes nearly hiding the blues of his iris'. His lips, which if you stared hard enough you could almost see a hint of gloss on them, were uncharacteristically turned down at the corners. "Eet's been seeks years, Art'ur, I zought zat we could—"

"Well you're wrong," Arthur cut Francis off quickly, pushing out of his chair. It made a quiet scraping noise against the smooth floor of the coffee shop and he knew a couple heads turned. He kept his cool, for once not blowing up in public. Instead, Arthur pushed his coffee mug a little closer to Francis, to show how done he was with this conversation, and turned away. "You tried to repair us once, Francis. I won't go through that again."

"You make eet sound like we 'ad somezing romanteek, cher." Francis tilted his head to meet Arthur's eye and at that angle the Frenchman was suddenly dangerous. Lethal. "Somezing eemotional."

"If it wasn't why would you bother with this meeting?" Arthur snapped, cheeks tinting, embarrassment rising. Always looking like a fool in front of this jerk. He was so, so tired of it.

"I am being... polite. I must." Francis traced the flower design on his mug, smiling ever so slightly. "I owe your mozer zat much."

Arthur lingered a second longer. Then he twisted his heel and stalked away.

* * *

**A/N: It's a little late, I know, and I'm real sorry you guys, but I sorta forgot I had to update today because I was out last night and this morning and it just left my mind, haha. Then when I remembered to do it I read through and I was like, "This is too short!" and major editing was done. I basically rewrote the chapter.**

**Well that was my boring update of the week ;D I'll probably be covering the other side of the story for a bit until... Hehe, well, you'll see :)**

**Hope you enjoy it! **

**- Seb**


	22. Chapter TwentyTwo

Gilbert stood on the deck of the boat, waiting for Mathew to board. They would be spending about a week at sea, crossing the Atlantic to Senegal, where they would meet with a man who would then get them to Switzerland, or at least Lichtenstein.

Gilbert never really was a "It's about the journey, not the destination," type person. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less he knew what to do when they got to "the destination."

Mathew was hugging Ismael, and exchanging teary-eyed farewells. Gilbert looked on, with a sort of jealousy. He had no idea why, but the idea of Mathew hugging anyone else was irksome to him. Then Ismael stood back and broke the hug, though he kept the touch. His hands slid along the waist of Mathew, and he moved a hand to cup his cheek, and move a tear. Perhaps they would kiss, and Mathew would want to stay in Cuba.

"Madew, lets goh!" He called, and then walked into the cabins of the huge freighter.

Now that he thought of it, after Mathew started to follow Ismael like a gay little puppy, he had started to look happier. Somehow, they had bonded, and left Gilbert out of it. They went to a night-club the night before, and Mathew didn't bother with anything else except Ismael. Gilbert was downing the tequila like nobodies business, and trying to avoid the stares. Yeah, he was an albino, so what? Is it really so strange to have such shitty genetics?

He reached into the bag that Ismael gave him once he reached the dark room he walked to in the cabin. He was given a bottle of rum, a bottle of tequila, a couple coconuts and Advil. It was an emergency bag.

Gilbert was angry, and he wanted to cling on to the anger. He could feel the boat pull away from the dock and motor into the rough waters of the Atlantic. He could hear Mathew walk into the room and dump his stuff. He was sniffling, obviously choked up that he had to leave his goddamn boyfriend.

Instead of attempting to comfort the crying boy, he got up and left to go explore the freighter. It was a good size, at least 40 feet with most of the room taken up by cargo space and rooms for the crew, and in this case, Gilbert and Mathew.

Gilbert walked down the dark hallway, since it just seemed impossible to properly light up the innards of the boat. Not enough sunlight shined inside, and it seemed cold. When Gilbert walked into the mess hall, he took a good look around. It wasn't even a mess hall, more like a micro cafeteria, and Gilbert had no intention of staying. Instead, he grabbed a glass of water, which was always allowed and left to go back to the room where he left Mathew.

He entered the room and set the glass down on a table which was covered in grips to keep things from sliding.

Mathew was lounging on his cot, thumbing through beads of a rosary. Gilbert took a small double take, since Mathew hated religious stuff, especially Christian religious stuff.

He sat down, and pretended to go through his bag just to seem like he had something he wanted to do. Suddenly, he heard Mathew clear his voice and he perked up.

"Gil…ahem, Gilbert?" He tested to see whether his attempt at socializing would be accepted. Gilbert sighed.

"vhat?"

"Thanks… for taking me… here…" He said awkwardly, "Thank you…"

Gilbert let what he said hang for a bit, and he swore he could hear Mathew bite his lip.

"Noh problem, Madew."

"Uh, do you want to play cards? Ismael gave me a deck…"

Gilbert sat up and turned on some lamps to light up the room.

"Vhy noht?" He grabbed the deck of cards, and started to shuffle them. He was flipping them skillfully when he noticed something. "Uuuuhhh… Madew? Dese ahre Pornographic Cards."

"Really?" Mathew questioned as he reached across to look at them. He looked at the card and laughed. "I'm such a fool."

"Huh?" Gilbert asked, urging him on.

"These are Ismaels very favourite cards. I suppose he's not gay after all." Mathew mused as he handed Gilbert the card.

"I guess he vas juhst a… flahmboyant hispahnic man." Gilbert let out a hissing laugh.

"I thought we had something… I guess not. I suppose he just saw me as a good friend, or brother or something."

"Vhy vould he see you like dat?" Gilbert dealt out the cards.

"Well, he went through the same thing as me. Well, kinda, he killed his best friend out of necessity, and he said he went through what I was going through."

Gilbert looked at him closely. What had changed in Mathew? Did the time he spent with Ismael really help him that much? He seemed a lot more gentle and calm instead of the sporadic and jilted Mathew from before. He seemed almost at peace, and he was opening up to Gilbert more. It calmed Gilbert down as well, since before then, it had seemed that the silence and distance between them was vital, like a tight rope they both clumsily walked.

"Vhat vere yoh going through?" Gilbert asked carefully, like testing uncharted waters. Mathew picked up his cards.

"…I…" Mathew started and hesitated. Gilbert passed him one more card and used it as an excuse to touch his hand. He let it linger, and Mathew clasped it.

"I saw Alfred. Everywhere I saw him, he looked like a demon, or a corpse. I was terrified, and he realized it."

Gilbert didn't say anything, but instead ran his thumb over Mathew's dry knuckles. Mathew was still in rough shape, Gilbert knew that, but he saw a change that he was thankful for. All he had done wasn't for naught.

He broke the hold and grabbed the tequila out of the bag.

"Doh yoh drink?" Gilbert asked.

Mathew gave a shaky smile as he reached for the bottle.

"I do now!"


End file.
